


Daughters of the West

by TamscendingGender



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Denethor Hate Propoganda, F/F, F/M, M/M, OC Heavy Content, very gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-12 06:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17462477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamscendingGender/pseuds/TamscendingGender
Summary: When Tinúviel's father was killed by orcs on a mission, she was assigned to the daunting task of cleaning up his huge collection of junk he found in the woods. She was expecting to find a lot of useless objects and ancient plants, but she never expected to find one of the rings of power, and especially not the One Ring. Upon announcing this discovery to Gandalf and Aragorn, she and the wizard rush off on a journey south to destroy the ring once and for all. However, Sauron does not realize that the ring changed hands and is still looking for a Baggins. The four hobbits still begin a journey to Rivendell, and on the way encounter Aragorn and his distant cousin, the young and energetic Gilraen. These six and three others–Arwen Undomiel, Legolas Greenleaf, and Gimli son of Gloin–leave the safety of Rivendell to assist Gondor in the war against Mordor. These two groups take on the daunting task of saving the world from evil, but will they prevail?This work, as you might have guessed, is derived very heavily from the original books; however, it circles primarily around my OCs. I hope you enjoy it!!!





	1. Prolouge

It was a lovely summer morning, and the flower were poking through the grass in Mirkwood. Randirion was wandering through the woods with no particular purpose, looking at the animals and plants and thinking about nothing at all. He was twenty-three years old, and he was full of love for the world. This was a bit odd for someone of such lineage as him.The Dúnedain were mainly somber and, while they did take time to notice nature, they often had more pressing issues on their mind like as protecting the world from evil. Randirion, however, was not concerned about the danger of Sauron returning or the orcs and other evil creatures that lurked in the mountains and dark corners of Mirkwood. He was enjoying himself too much for that. He had been visiting the court of Thranduil, the king of the elves in Mirkwood, and now he was making his leisurely way back to the main camp of the Dúnedain, in the Emyn Uial near Lake Everdim.  
“What a lovely day it is.” Randirion said to a squirrel perched in a tree as he passed it. The squirrel did not say anything because it was a squirrel. Randirion paused a moment to look at an unusual flower he had not seen before. He was distracted from the mysterious vegetation by something less natural. “Hmm.” he said. “What is this doing here?” The object in question was a golden ring lying in the grass beside the path. It was unadorned, and rather dirty from sitting in the dirt. Randirion wondered who had left it there. He guessed it had been some traveler passing by. An elf would not lose something like this.  
“I think I’ll add this to my collection.” Randirion decided. He tucked the ring into his pocket and set off again. He could show it to the woman he fell in love with, someday. Maybe they would get married with it. What really happened was this: several weeks later, when Randirion finally returned to the hills, he put it in a box with similar objects he had found in his meandering journeys and forgot about it. And there it sat for 76 years.


	2. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinúviel finds something surprising in her father's affects.

Tinúviel’s father had accumulated far more useless items then was practical throughout his life. It had been a shorter life than most Dúnedain, but that was not saying much. Ninety-nine years was plenty of time to acquire many, many things that he had found along the sides of the paths he traveled on. This habit of collection had been quirky in life, but in death it was irritating. It didn’t help that Tinúviel was the only member of her family who had been willing to help sort through the piles of boxes that loomed in the corner of their hut. She sighed. Such was her life. Her siblings were all off on missions or busy with their families, and her mother was still grieving. She wished as she pulled open yet another wooden crate of knick knacks that she had not just returned from a long journey. Couldn’t Aragorn have assigned the mission to the edges of Mordor one month later?

_You would have missed your father’s burial, you idiot._ she chastised herself, as she dug a couple of rocks from the crate. As she set them aside, she noticed something glittering in the bottom of the crate. Tinúviel frowned. It looked like gold. She reached in and pulled it out. It was a ring, unadorned and definitely made of gold. What was a ring doing in her father’s crate of things he’d found in the woods? She had a very bad feeling about it. She put it on, curious to see if her finger would fit in it. As soon as her finger went through the circle, she turned invisible. Tinúviel tore the ring from her finger and tossed it to the ground, staring at it in horror. Nothing good ever came from rings of invisibility. There were very few that did, and the one she knew of…

“Fuck.” she whispered. “Damn it, fuck!” Her history lessons on the fate of Isildur after Sauron’s defeat by the Last Alliance came rushing back to her. Tinúviel picked the ring up and shoved it deep into her pocket. She left the piles of junk and boxes for later and walked quickly through the camp towards the central campfire. It was lucky she had found this ring when she had, for not only was the chieftain of the Dúnedain in the camp, but Gandalf the wizard was visiting. Gandalf would know what to do about the ring.

The Dúnedain camp was unusually busy for that time of year. Usually the spring was a time when men and women were out in the field, hunting orcs and defending the free peoples of the world from evil, but on that particular day the camp was full of people bustling about. Tinúviel found Aragorn and Gandalf sitting next to Aragorn’s small hut talking intently in quiet voices. She paused some ways away from them, patiently waiting for their conversation to end. After a few minutes, Gandalf looked up and noticed her standing there.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Aragorn looked up as well and smiled encouragingly at her.

“I have been sorting through my father’s things, and I found something of interest.” Tinúviel said. She stepped closer, pulling the ring out of her pocket. “I tried it on and I became invisible. I think it might be one of the Rings of Power.” she whispered. “Maybe even the One Ring.” Gandalf and Aragorn peered at it. Despite the dust and dirt, it gleamed in the sunlight.

“Where did you find this?” Gandalf asked, his eyebrows squeezing together like two anxious caterpillars.

“My father was killed two weeks ago by orcs, and I have been sorting through the things he had accumulated.” Tinúviel said. “He must have found it in the woods somewhere. I do not know when.” Gandalf stared at the ring.

“But Bilbo found this.” he said, almost to himself. “Bilbo found this in the Misty Mountains. How did it get here?”

“Perhaps Bilbo dropped it.” Aragorn suggested. “Thorin and his company went through Mirkwood, correct? I know Randirion went to Mirkwood often.”

“There is only one way to tell if it is the correct one.” Gandalf said. “Unfortunately, I do not have the information yet. I was planning on going to Minas Tirith to look at the writings of Isildur…but I supposed I still can go.”

“And you can take Tinúviel.” Aragorn suggested. “That way, if it is the right ring, you can go straight to Mordor.”

“And destroy it in the fires of Oroduin, so that Sauron’s power will be destroyed once and for all” Tinúviel guessed. She bit her lip. Her mother would not like this. “When will we leave?”

“As soon as possible.” Gandalf said. “How long will it take you to prepare?”

“I can be ready by tomorrow morning.” Tinúviel said. “I will need to tell my mother, though.”

“I will come with you.” Aragorn said, standing up. “I know she will listen to me.”

“You do not have to.” Tinúviel protested. She did not want her chieftain involved in the argument that was sure to occur. “I know you and Gandalf are–”

“It is not a problem.” Aragorn said, smiling kindly. “We can go now so that Gandalf and I can get back to what we were doing.” They walked away from the central fire and towards where Tinúviel’s mother had been spending her time for the previous two weeks. She was sitting in front of a tree staring at her surroundings. She was still wearing the black dress she had been wearing at the funeral three days ago. When Aragorn and Tinúviel approached her she looked up at them.

“Tinúviel, finally!” she said, standing and grabbing her daughter’s hands. “No one has come to sit with me yet. Ungrateful children. Not even Turin has come to see me.”

“Turin is busy with his family.” Tinúviel said quietly. “I have not come to sit with you. I am leaving on another mission.” Tinúviel’s mother threw up her hands, dropping Tinúviel’s in the process.

“Missions! They will take all of my children from me!” she cried. “Vardamir and Pengoldh have been away in the wild since your father was buried and they will not come back for months! Telpriën has been off who knows where for months now! I know Turin will be gone, and Ancalimë with him, once their two children are born and old enough. You will all go into the wilds and the orcs will kill you like they killed your father.”

“This is what our life is!” Tinúviel exclaimed, shocked at her mother’s outburst. “It is our inheritance and our duty!”

“You and your duty!” her mother said, glaring. “If I didn’t know you I would think that you didn’t care for our family at all. Duty!”

“Without the Dúnedain this part of the world would have been overrun with orcs and evil men hundreds of years ago!” Tinúviel exclaimed. “We are working to keep it free! You know that!”

“I should have taken you all to Rivendell and never returned when you were children.” her mother said. “This is not the life I wanted for my children.”

“I would have come straight back the moment I learned what our heritage was.” Tinúviel countered angrily. “Why should I live in comfort among the elves when there is a war brewing?” She had never shouted at anyone like this before. 

“There has been a war brewing for hundreds of years.” her mother replied. “Why should now be different? Let the others wage war.”

“This mission will end the war.” Tinúviel said, lowering her voice so no one else would hear her words. “This mission will free the whole world, and you want me to stay hidden away in the hills, waiting for the end? The lives of thousands are relying on my completion of this mission. I cannot follow your advice when the stakes are so high.”

“Make her listen to me.” Tinúviel’s mother hissed at Aragorn, turning on him like an angry bull. “She will not go wherever it is she is going.”

“I am afraid she must.” Aragorn said quietly. “I cannot promise that she will come back, but I trust that she will succeed and be named among the great heroes of our people. She will be deemed as great as the elf you named her for.”

“I do not care for greatness.” Tinúviel’s mother said. “All I care for is my family to be alive.”

“I am leaving tomorrow.” Tinúviel said to her, turning away. “Tell everyone I said goodbye.” She walked away, leaving her mother and Aragorn by the tree.

As Tinúviel was packing her bag with extra clothes and other sundry useful items that evening, there was a knock on the door and Gilraen came into the hut. Gilraen was a young woman, fifteen years younger than Tinúviel. She was some sort of cousin to Aragorn. Both of her parents had been killed on a mission when she was seven. Tinúviel had been seventeen, and the memory of the small girl standing and watching men bury her parents while holding her father’s sword would forever remain in the back of her mind. That somber little girl had grown into a cheerful young woman with great skill in the arts of war and woodcraft, and a love of jokes and legends. Joyful Dúnedain were a rare thing, but Gilraen was one of them.

“I hear you’re going to Mordor.” she said, flopping into the wooden chair Tinúviel’s father had built years ago. “I’ve come to see you off, since it’s secret and no one else knows about it.” Gilraen had an uncanny ability to know things. It came with the honor of being more closely related than most to the chief of the Dúnedain. “I’m heading off into the woods myself tomorrow. Border guard, road watching. All that. I’m going up, and then I’m coming back down to the Weather Hills. Maybe I’ll do a loop and stop by the Prancing Pony. You can’t beat their ale, even if I always get suspicious looks.” She shrugged. “And you’re off to Minas Tirith with Gandalf to look through books. I wish I could come with you. I hear they have books that are older than the city itself. The oldest thing I’ve ever been near is…actually, I think the trees are probably older than anything. Never mind then.”

“I might not come back.” Tinúviel said softly. It had just hit her, listening to Gilraen ramble on about going into the wild and Bree. “I might save the world, but I might die.” Gilraen looked solemn.

“I’m sure Gandalf will get you back here.” she said, fiddling with one of her many braids. “He’s older than the trees. I don’t even know where he comes from.”

“I hope so.” Tinúviel said. “If I do not come back, at least I will have scarified myself for the good of the world. Hundreds of thousands of people will live freely.”

“I guess that does make it better.” Gilraen said, standing up. “Well, I’ll see you in a year or so. Good luck!” She snapped to a salute and waltzed out of the hut. Tinúviel put a coil of rope on top of the spare clothes and herbs and tools and buckled the bag up. She would fill her waterskin in the morning. The ring was shoved into an inner pocket in her tunic, and she could feel it bumping against her skin. It wasn’t easily reached, which was good. Tinúviel had resolved herself to never put it on. It was too dangerous. She ate a hearty meal of rabbit stew and vegetables, with the knowledge that this could be one of her last hot meals until Minas Tirith. After finishing that, she went right to sleep.


	3. Going South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and Tinúviel set off on their journey and meet with Elrond and Arwen

Tinúviel and Gandalf set out for the south early the next morning. Their plan was to go through the town of Bree so that Gandalf could send a letter to one of his friends in the Shire, and then ride down the road to Rivendell. The journey from the Dúnedain camp to Bree would have only been about four hours, but the hills between the road and the camp were so closely wooded that they were forced to walk the horses. After four hours of picking their way down the hills, they came to a place where horses could walk, and in about two hours they were riding through the gates of Bree. Dúnedain were common in Bree; although they were not trusted, the townsfolk did not look twice at a Dúnedain passing through or drinking in the inn. Gandalf, however, in his large gray cloak and big hat, attracted stares from everyone they passed. They rode up to the Prancing Pony, the local inn that was renowned among the Dúnedain for its good ale, hearty food, and fine service. Gandalf dismounted and went into the inn. Tinúviel also dismounted from her horse, but she remained outside. After a few minutes, the doors of the inn opened and a hobbit appeared. He stared at Tinúviel skittishly.

“I’ve come to take the horses.” he said. Tinúviel handed the reins over to him and he hurried off without meeting her eyes. She watched him for a moment, making sure he really was taking the horses to the stable, then entered. Gandalf was leaning against the front bar talking to Barliman Butterbur, the innkeeper.

“Ah, there she is.” Gandalf said. “I am sure you two have met.”

“It is always a pleasure to come to your establishment.” Tinúviel said, giving him a slight bow. Butterbur smiled stiffly. He always was nervous around the Dúnedain. 

“Now, as I was saying, I would like you to find someone to deliver this letter to the Shire.” Gandalf said to Butterbur. “It’s very important it gets there as soon as possible. Lives depend on this letter!”

“I’m not sure when the…oh, there’s someone!” Butterbur said, interrupting himself upon the entrance of a hobbit from the main dining room. “Hello, Dan. Are you going home to the Shire anytime soon?” The hobbit, a rotund fellow with more hair than most hobbits had, paused to consider the question.

“I am. In fact, I’m leaving right now.” he said.

“Excellent! Would you take this letter to one Frodo Baggins in Hobbiton?” Gandalf asked, swooping down upon the hobbit and thrusting a letter at him. Dan looked surprised, but he took the letter.

“I can, sir. Lucky for you, I live on Bag End just a few holes down from Mr. Baggins.” he said. “There’s no need to pay me.” he added, as Gandalf rummaged in his pouch for coins. “It’s no trouble.” Gandalf pumped the hobbit’s hand enthusiastically.

“Thank you very much.” he said. The hobbit smiled, bowed, and left the inn, letter tucked under his arm.

“Well, that is very good.” Gandalf said. “We will be on our way now, Barliman. I may not see you for a while. Goodbye!” With that, he swept out of the inn. Tinúviel followed him, although with much less aplomb. Dúnedain did not go in for dramatics. They went around the inn to the stables, where their horses were happily eating oats and being rubbed down by the hobbit who had taken them.

“Thank you for looking after our horses.” Gandalf said, striding forward and taking his saddle off of the hook. Tinúviel went to take care of her own horse, Elen. He nickered and tried to stick his nose in her pocket. He was a very greedy animal who was always looking for apples. Tinúviel rubbed his nose and saddled him. They led their horses out of the barn and set off. 

The road from Bree to Rivendell was lined with trees. The sun shone high in the sky, and the flowers were out in force. The few people who by stared at them curiously. At first Tinúviel supposed that they were staring because Dúnedain did not typically ride openly down the road, but after about an hour she realized that it was likely none of these travelers, who were mainly dwarves, knew who the Dúnedain were. They were staring because Tinúviel was a woman wearing weapons and gear for battle. She had lived her whole life among warrior women, and sometimes she forgot that outside of the Dúnedain and the elves, that was not common. When the next group of dwarves walked by and gaped at her, Tinúviel gave them a death stare.

The ride to Rivendell was very monotonous. They would wake up very early in the morning, ride for a few hours, stop to let the horses eat and rest, ride a few more hours, stop again, and then ride until it was dark and find a place off of the road to sleep. Tinúviel was not used to a journey not filled with an ever-hanging sense that you would come across a band of orcs in the woods. Most, if not all, of the journeys she had taken in her life had been in the name of protecting the Shire from outside evil, or spying on Mordor, or any number of dangerous missions that were required of the Dúnedain. Riding down a road with no attacks, no danger, and hot meals every night was a novelty for her. Gandalf was not the most talkative companion, but Tinúviel did not mind. She was fine with riding in silence, listening to the birds and looking at the scenery. Luckily for them, the week they spent riding was rainless and sunny. Gandalf had been anxious about encountering something from Mordor, but that did not happen. Tinúviel wasn’t sure why he was anxious about being attacked; Mordor couldn’t know they had left, or that they had the Ring.

Rivendell was tucked into a valley in between the woods known as the Trollshaws and the feet of the Misty Mountains. Some called it the Last Homely House due to its status as the last inhabited structure west of the mountains. Tinúviel had heard many stories about it but had never been there. As they rode over the hill and down into the valley proper, she gazed in awe at the legendary haven. There was one very large house in the center of the valley, and it was surrounded by trees and gardens. Small figures moved about it, and the faint sound of singing drifted up on the wind to the two travelers. They road down through an avenue of trees and dismounted at the door. A smiling elf boy was there to take their horses. 

“Welcome to Rivendell, Mithrandir, milady.” he said courteously. Tinúviel thought about correcting him–she was not a lady, after all–but he was traipsing off with their horses before she could. Gandalf opened the door to the house and they entered the house. The front entrance could have fit five Dúnedain huts and still have room for people. There was an elaborate fresco on the ceiling depicting the coming of the elves to Middle Earth, and the columns were decorated very ornately. A pair of elf women walked through the hall on their way somewhere, laughing. Just being in the house felt refreshing to Tinúviel. A door at the far end of the hall opened and the most beautiful woman Tinúviel had ever seen walked through. She was tall and had chin length curly black hair. Her eyes were a deep brown, and she had a serene smile on her face. Her dress was a silvery white that stood out against her dark brown skin, and its sleeves flowed down almost to the floor. 

“Gandalf!” she exclaimed. “We were not expecting you! Is there something happening?”

“It’s very urgent, Arwen. I must speak with you and your father at once.” Gandalf said, striding forward. “Is he in his chambers?”

“I believe so.” Arwen said. “Come with me.” She turned and went back through the door. Gandalf and Tinúviel followed her. They went up a winding wooden staircase and down a long hallway lined with doors. At the very end of the hall, Arwen knocked on a large door that was more ornate than the other ones. It was opened by an elf man. He was the same height as Arwen and had the same features, but his hair was long and straight. Tinúviel guessed that this was the famous Elrond Half-Elven. 

“Gandalf, my dear friend.” Elrond said, clasping Gandalf’s hand in greeting. “What brings you unannounced to Rivendell? And who is your companion?”

“Urgent business, Elrond, very urgent.” Gandalf said. “This is Tinúviel, one of the younger Dúnedain.” Tinúviel bowed.

“I am at your service, Lord Elrond.” she said courteously. Elrond’s eyebrows went up upon hearing her name.

“Tinúviel.” he said. “An interesting name.”

“My father was a lover of the old tales.” Tinúviel said, feeling incredibly embarrassed. “He gave all of my siblings and me names that are much higher than what our stations in life are. Nothing lower than the kings and queens and heroes of Middle Earth for my father.”

“I have known many a man like your father.” Elrond said. “It is no detriment to your character.”

“He was more one who did not understand the conventions of life than one who looked higher than his station.” Gandalf said. “But that is no matter. We must discuss something with you that holds the fate of this world in the balance.” 

“Come in, then, and sit.” Elrond said, gesturing into his chambers. Gandalf and Tinúviel entered, and the elves followed. Elrond’s front room was as elegant as the front entrance. His furniture was made of beautiful wood inlaid with intricate carvings. Tinúviel sat in one of the chairs, perching on the edge of the seat. Elrond, Arwen, and Gandalf sat in the others.

“You may recall that I sent you a message regarding Bilbo Baggins and the ring that he took from the creature Gollum in the Misty Mountains.” Gandalf began. Elrond nodded. “Well, I became suspicious that the ring might be one of the Rings of Power, and I went to visit Frodo, Bilbo’s heir, in the Shire to investigate further. However, Frodo did not have the ring. In fact, he had never heard of any such ring. I was astonished. I came here to speak with Bilbo and discovered that he had dropped it in Mirkwood years ago and had forgotten about it until I questioned him. I then went to consult with Aragorn at the Emyn Uial camp, and there I encountered Tinúviel. Her father had been killed by orcs two weeks previously, and while sorting through what I understand to be a huge number of objects he had accumulated throughout his life she found a ring which, if put on, makes the wearer invisible. Being a proper Dúnedan who remembers her people’s history, Tinúviel recognized the ring as potentially one of the Rings of Power and brought it to Aragorn. We set out immediately to consult you.” Elrond looked thoughtful.

“This is interesting news.” he said. “It changes our plans regarding the ring. Since it is here now, we can summon a council at once and decide what we must do.”

“But what we must do it clear!” Tinúviel exclaimed, and then immediately felt embarrassed at her impudence. “I am sorry, Lord Elrond.” she said, bowing. “I should not have been so forward.”

“Speak your thoughts.” Elrond said. “They may be vital. What do you propose we do?”

“We must do what was not done by Isildur all those years ago.” Tinúviel said. “It must be thrown into the fires of Oroduin. It needs to return from whence it came.”

“That is a dangerous journey.” Arwen said quietly. “It is a long road, fraught with many perils. I would not dare to send anyone down it.”

“Yet she is right.” Elrond said. “It is what must be done in the end. Who is brave enough to take that road? We should take time to consider–”

“I will do it.” Tinúviel said quietly. She had never interrupt someone so many times in her life, and she was astounded by her own audacity. “It is the duty of my people to bring this war to an end. It was not my forefathers who caused this misfortune, but it will be me who brings this to an end.” Gandalf, Elrond, and Arwen all stared at her.

“So be it.” Elrond said. “We should be taking more time to discuss this, but after all, time is of the essence. Gandalf, will you guide Tinúviel to Mordor? It is not a journey for one person. I would prefer to send more people, but Gandalf and one of the Dúnedain are surely worth an army.”

“I would be honored.” Gandalf said.

“We will supply you for a month.” Elrond said, standing and pacing. “You can restock in Minas Tirith, unless...are you still going there?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said. “I would like to make absolutely sure that this is the Ring. I do not know if Denethor will want us there, but he will let us in. He is wise, no matter what he may seem to be.” Tinúviel watched the exchange with a strange mixture of emotions. She had always wanted to visit Minas Tirith, to go to the sea and gaze out to the horizon where Númenor had once stood, to walk the lands her ancestors had founded. The excitement of finally getting to visit that ancient city was held back by the looming fact that she was going to have to go into the heart of Mordor, risking life and limb to defeat the enemy in a move that was more likely to fail than it was to succeed. The fate of the world hung on Tinúviel’s ability to make it past the sentinels of Mordor and evade one of the most powerful forces in Middle Earth. She had offered herself up as the one to follow through with the task, but already she was having doubts. Was she meant to do this, or had the ring come to her through a twisting of what was meant to be? Perhaps it was the hobbit who had dropped the ring in the woods so long ago that was supposed to carry this job through.

_This is your duty, Tinúviel,_ she thought to herself. _Don’t be stupid._

“We will stop by Isengard to consult with Saruman.” Gandalf was saying. “This is his realm of expertise, after all.”

“That is wise.” Elrond said. “Should I send him a message?”

“The woods are full of spies.” Gandalf said. “I do not think that Saruman will mind us arriving at his door unannounced if it is for something as important as the fate of the world.” Elrond nodded sagely.

“I have many things I need to tell you, Gandalf, but I think we must excuse our younger companion.” he said. “I do not mean to patronize you, Tinúviel,” he added, “But we have issues that are specific to the wise that we need to discuss, and I believe that you need sleep.”

“Yes, Lord Elrond, I understand.” Tinúviel said, standing and bowing. “I will see you in the morning.” Elrond went to the door and called to an elf walking past the room. They had a brief whispered conversation, and then the other elf beckoned to Tinúviel. She followed him through the winding corridors and into a small bedroom tucked into the corner of the house. A large window on one side of the house looked out onto the garden. Someone had left a tray of food on the table, and after devouring everything on the plate–she had not eaten such a filling and delicious meal since the Prancing Pony–Tinúviel fell into the bed and was asleep almost at once.


	4. Hobbits in the Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilraen encounters some surprising people in the woods

Gilraen could smell the fire before she saw it. It was an unusual enough occurrence in these times for there to be a fire in the wilds for her to notice it. She paused, listening intently to the sounds of the wilderness. She could hear people talking somewhere close by.

“Interesting.” she said to herself and drew her sword. There shouldn’t be anyone in these parts. She was the only person assigned to patrol this section of the wilderness. She crept through the undergrowth, her eyes flickering back and forth, searching for the source of the fire. She found it very quickly. In a dell beneath Weathertop, there was a small campfire flickering in the gathering twilight, and several small figures were clustered around it. They did not appear to be threatening, but you could never be too careful. Gilraen kept her sword out and began making her cautious way down the slope, flitting between the shadows and relying heavily on her cloak for camouflage.

She had been in the wild for the past week and was grateful for a change in the general sameness of the woods. Things being the same was a good thing, Gilraen knew, but sometimes she got restless. She wanted a good sword fight, or at least a conversation. As she got closer to the fire, she could see the figures more clearly. To her surprise, she found them to be hobbits. It was unheard of to see hobbits so far away from the safety of Bree. Something was up. Gilraen wondered if it had to do with Tinúviel’s mission to Minas Tirith. Hobbits in the woods, Gandalf rushing around like a squirrel late for his winter gathering: things were different, and it was probably not a good thing. She stepped from the shadows of the trees and walked towards the fire. A pony that had been standing off to the side of the campsite snorted in surprise. One of the hobbits, who was tending to a pot on the fire, jumped up with a shout and raised the cooking utensil in his hand as a weapon. The other three hobbits also turned, and they all drew daggers from their belts. The one in the center, who seemed to be the eldest of the group, stepped forward with his weapon pointed at Gilraen.

“Who are you, and where did you come from?” he asked, his voice a little shaky but confident.

“I was wondering the same thing.” Gilraen said. “But I suppose I should explain myself first. My name is Gilraen and I am of the Dúnedain of these forests. I came from up there.” She pointed towards where she had come down the dell. “How did four hobbits come to be here?”

“How do we know you’re not a servant of Sauron?” the hobbit demanded. “We were warned that we might meet many of those on the road.”

“You don’t know that.” Gilraen said cheerfully. “I could be. I would try not to say that name so loudly, though. These woods have ears and eyes. We are living in dangerous times.”

“We should hold her off until Strider comes.” the hobbit who had been cooking said. “He’ll know what to do.”

“What are we going to do with her until he comes back?” another of the hobbits, this one younger, shorter, and slighter than the other three, asked. “She’s got a sword.”

“I’ll sit down here and wait for this Strider fellow to come.” Gilraen said, plopping herself down by the fire. The hobbits moved to the other side of the flames. The hobbit who was cooking began to divide up the stew into five bowls. Gilraen’s stomach growled, but she did not think that the hobbits would want to share their meal with her. She wondered who the mysterious Strider was, and where he had gone off to. She kept a hand on her sword, in case Strider turned out to be a servant of the enemy who had deceived these hobbits into following him. Several minutes passed, and Gilraen started to feel that Strider would never come. The hobbits ate their stew and conversed among themselves. Finally, the trees rustled, and a man appeared from the darkness. Gilraen jumped to her feet.

“ _Aragorn_?!” she exclaimed. Aragorn did not seem surprised to see her.

“Hello, Gilraen.” he said, walking fully into the firelight. “I thought we might see you. How are the wilds?”

“Stranger and stranger every day.” Gilraen said. Aragorn sat down and picked up the bowl of stew waiting for him. Gilraen sat down, more relaxed now that she knew who Strider was. “Hobbits past Breeland, calling you Strider...what next?”

“You know each other?” the cooking hobbit asked incredulously.

“For better or for worse.” Aragorn said. Gilraen made a face at him.

“What are you doing with four hobbits in the middle of the wilderness, anyway?” she asked. “That seems out of character for hobbits.”

“The Enemy still does not know where the ring is, and believes it is in the possession of a Baggins. Gandalf believes that he is going to send his servants after Frodo in an attempt to recover it.” Aragorn said.

“My uncle was the one who lost it in the woods.” Frodo, the hobbit who had spoken first, said.

“But why are there four hobbits, and not just Frodo?” Gilraen pressed.

“I wouldn’t let Mr. Frodo go into foreign parts by himself.” the cooking hobbit said indignantly.

“Neither would we!” the sandy-haired hobbit added. “We don’t let friends go off into danger alone.”

“This is some danger you’re following him into.” Gilraen commented.

“Did you see anything on your way down here?” Aragorn asked her. “I do not think anything is tracking us, but it is better to be safe than dead.”

“Nothing but birds and beasts.” Gilraen said. “If there was anything else, it was beyond my powers of perception.” Aragorn seemed comforted by this.

“We will continue on towards Rivendell in the morning.” he told them. “I will take first watch.” The hobbits rolled themselves up in their bedrolls and seemed to go to sleep instantly. Gilraen went to sit beside Aragorn on the edge of the campsite.

“Where are you going to go after Rivendell?” she asked, picking a clump of grass and absently braiding it together.

       “I am not sure.” Aragorn said. “I think I might go to Minas Tirith and help with the war there. Lord Denethor has many strong men under his command, but they could always use another. Or, perhaps I will go to Rohan. I would like to stay in Imladris, but that is not an option for me.” He sighed. 

“I want to come with you.” Gilraen said. “Whether it be to Minas Tirith or...further east.”

“That is not my road to tread.” Aragorn said softly. They sat in silence, thinking about Tinúviel and her quest. “I do not know how they will take you in Minas Tirith.” Aragorn said finally. “They do not have warrior women there anymore.” Gilraen had not thought about that. The people of Bree were suspicious of her for being a Ranger, but they had never been hostile to her for her gender. They saw all kinds of people in Bree, and a woman carrying weapons was not the strangest thing one could see on any given night in the Prancing Pony.

“I can handle them.” she said. “I get enough of that in Bree for other things. I think I can take on a city of suspicious men.”

“Not just suspicious.” Aragorn said. “I am worried about outright hostility.” Gilraen chewed her lip.

“I’ll be with you.” she said finally. “I think the endorsement of the heir of Isildur will quell their hostilities, don’t you think?”

“I do not think they will know about that until the time is right.” Aragorn said. “The Steward might not take too kindly to what he might see as a challenge to his place of power. He is a shrewd man, but power hungry. Unless he has changed since I saw him last.”

“He sounds fun.” Gilraen commented.

“Go get some sleep.” Aragorn said. “You can have the next watch.” Gilraen nodded and clambered into her bedroll. She lay in the darkness for a while, mulling over the information Aragorn had given her. A city full of suspicious men and a power-hungry steward sounded almost as great a challenge as walking all the way to Mordor. Almost, but not quite.


	5. Over the Ford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilraen, Aragorn, and the hobbits travel through the woods.

The woods that lined the road to Rivendell were close and full of brambles. The party went slower that Gilraen was used to walking, but she managed to contain her impatience. The younger hobbits were very energetic and took the bracken and debris into stride. Bill the pony was astonishingly energetic despite resembling a skeleton covered in skin. 

“Are you from the South, or are you just really tan?” Pippin, the youngest of the hobbits, asked, nimbly jumping over a tree root.

“My family came North from Harad years and years ago.” Gilraen said. “One of my distant ancestors was a man of Númenor. He fell in love with a princess of one of the countries of Harad, and our line was born. My grandparents left when my father was a baby. There was a coup, and evil men in the service of Sauron took power in every country. My family knew that a group of our people lived near Lake Everdim, and they travelled there.”

“That’s an awfully long way to travel with a baby.” Sam said. “Hundreds of thousands of miles. I’ve heard that Harad is all harsh, inhospitable desert and that’s why the people are so fierce, begging your pardon, ma’am.”

“Well, someone taught you wrong.” Gilraen said. “There’s plenty of other sorts of land there than just desert. There are mountains, and grassy plains, and forests of all kinds. My grandfather said that there were forests where it rained all the time, and where creatures that swing from trees with their tails and colorful birds that could talk live.”

“Did he ever say anything about oliphaunts?” Sam asked. “I’ve always wanted to see one of those.

_ Gray as a mouse _

_ Big as a house _

_ Nose like a snake _

_ I make the earth shake _

_ As I tramp through the grass _

_ Trees crack as I pass _

_ With horns in my mouth _

_ I walk in the South _

_ Flapping big ears _

_ Beyond count of years _

_ I stump round and round _

_ Never lie on the ground _

_ Not even to die _

_ Oliphaunt am I _

_ Biggest of all _

_ Huge, old and tall _

_ If you ever you’d met me _

_ You wouldn’t forget me _

_ If you never do _

_ You won’t think I’m true _

_ But old Oliphaunt and I _

_ And I never lie. _ ”

When he finished his poem, the company applauded, and he blushed scarlet.

“He did tell me about oliphaunts.” Gilraen said. “I’ve never heard that poem before. Someday I’d like to go to Harad, maybe when it’s not ruled by servants of Sauron. I doubt they’d like a Dúnedain coming into their country and tramping around, even if I do look like them.”

“Sam, you have all kinds of secrets tucked up inside that head of yours.” Frodo commented. “First you were a conspirator, now you recite poetry. Whatever shall you do next?”

“Maybe he’ll be a tumbler!” Pippin exclaimed.

“Or a warrior.” Merry suggested.

“We may all turn out to be warriors in the end.” Aragorn said quietly.

“Not me.” Sam said. “I don’t know nothing about fighting. I’ll just do the cooking, if you please, Strider.”

“Strider.” Gilraen repeated. “Wherever did you get that name?”

“The men of Bree gave it to me.” Aragorn said. “It’s because of my long legs, I believe.” Gilraen laughed. The idea that a whole town knew the heir of Isildur and the rightful king of Middle-Earth as Strider was hilarious.

The journey through the forest became significantly less pleasant a few days out from Weathertop when they hit the marshes. The ground was soggy, and flies of all kinds buzzed around their heads. Their days were filled with biting bugs and wet boots, and their nights were filled with the screeching of all kinds of insects and other animals. 

“I’d rather fight a whole army of Black Riders than spend another night with those neeker breekers!” Sam cried their third night in the marsh. Gilraen had to agree with him. The constant _neek breek_ that had inspired Sam’s name for the insects was driving her crazy. They slogged on through the wet ground until on the sixth day of their journey they finally came out of the dense forest and began to hike up the slope of the hill on the other side.

“On the other side of this hill lies troll country.” Aragorn said. “I do not think trolls come down this way anymore, but it is always best to be careful.” They climbed up the side of the hill and walked along its summit for a day, then descended back down into the forests. Here the trees were further apart, and there were no screeching creatures. There were small paths worn out of the underbrush by the larger animals that wandered the forests. On the eighth day, the monotony of the journey was interrupted at last. Pippin and Merry were walking ahead of the rest of the party and had gone out of sight. Suddenly, they came racing back, looking terrified. 

“There are trolls in the clearing up ahead!” Merry whispered, his eyes wide. “Three of them, big ones!”

“Trolls? Down here?” Gilraen said incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, we’re sure!” Pippin exclaimed. “They’re giant _trolls_! It’s kind of hard to be mistaken about that.”

“Let me see.” Aragorn said. They followed the hobbits down the path and to the edge of the clearing. Sitting in the center of the circle of trees were three very large trolls. Gilraen frowned. Trolls shouldn’t be out in the sunlight. And anyway, there was a bird’s nest behind one of their ears.

“Aragorn…” she began, but he had already picked up a stick and was striding towards the trolls.

“Is he mad?!” Merry hissed. The hobbits huddled behind Gilraen. Bill flicked his ears back and forth nervously. Aragorn marched up to the nearest troll and smacked it on the head with his stick. It broke.

“These trolls have been frozen for a while.” Aragorn laughed. “You have forgotten everything you ever knew about trolls! It is sunny outside, and this fellow has a nest behind his ear.” Gilraen came into the clearing and examined the frozen trolls. The hobbits followed, laughing.

“We have forgotten our family history!” Frodo exclaimed, staring up at the trolls. “These must be the same trolls that tried to cook Bilbo and the dwarves for dinner. They were lucky Gandalf was there to save them.”

“I thought that was just a story!” Gilraen said. She had heard rumors of the hobbit who had traveled with Thorin Oakensheild and his companions.

“We have plenty of daylight left, so let us sit and eat.” Aragorn said. They pulled out the food from the packs and sat in the center of the circle of trolls. Bill stayed far away from trolls and munched the grass.

“I wonder what happened to the treasure Bilbo got from the trolls.” Pippin wondered. He was taking up more space than a person of his size ought to.

“I believe he gave it all away.” Frodo said. “He said he didn’t feel right keeping treasure that had been stolen.”

“When are we going to get to Rivendell, Strider?” Merry asked, yawning. “I miss sleeping in a nice soft bed.”

“We have about a week.” Aragorn said. “If all goes well, that is. I do not know if the Black Riders still have our trail.” The mood of the group grew darker.

“I thought we’d lost them.” Pippin grumbled. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? We don’t have that stupid ring.”

“If they left us alone, it would mean that the Dark Lord found where ‘that stupid ring’ is, which would be bad for everyone.” Aragorn said.

“We do not want that, no siree.” Gilraen said. “It would mean the end of the world.” There was a terrified silence from the hobbits. Aragorn stood up and stretched his legs out.

“I think that we should be going on our way.” he said. “Banish all thoughts of the end of the world. It will do no good right now.” They gathered their things and left the trolls behind them.

They returned to the road on the tenth day. Aragorn had decided that they could risk it, and in any case, it meant that if any of the elves had left a sign to signal danger on the road ahead they would be able to see it. This part of the road was usually quiet. The elves of Rivendell did not go west often, and when they did they typically went through the woods. However, they found horse tracks leading out of the woods three days out from Rivendell.

“That does not look good.” Gilraen declared.

“Four horses passed this way.” Aragorn said. He was kneeling on the ground inspecting the prints. “They must be trying to intercept us at the Ford. We should pick up the pace.” They slept fitfully that night, and did not stop to eat during the day, eating the bread and cheese left in the packs while they walked.

They were only a few hours away from the fords when they heard a horse’s hooves on the road ahead. The hobbits dove into the bushes on the side of the rode, Sam dragging Bill with him. Gilraen and Aragorn ran into the ditch on the other side of the road and waited, swords drawn. The hooves came closer and closer, until the horse came into view. It was a white horse, and it was being ridden by a tall figure. It was an elf. He was tall, and he had dark curly hair that fell past his shoulders and skin only a few shades lighter than Gilraen’s. There was a light about him that told her he must be one of the Firstborn, a lord among elves.  Gilraen released the breath that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Aragorn clambered up the slope and hurried towards the elf.

      “Glorofindel! It is so good to see you!” he exclaimed in Sindarin. Gilraen followed him. Glorofindel dismounted from his horse and embraced Aragorn.

“Aragorn! I had hoped I would see you!” he cried in the same language. The hobbits emerged cautiously from the bushes. “I was told you have strange companions on your journey, but I was not expecting hobbits.” Glorofindel said in Westron. “And you must be Gilraen. I remember you from when you lived with us all those years ago.” Gilraen bowed.

“It is an honor, my lord.” she said.

“I have led the riders away from the Fords, but they will not be gone for much longer.” Glorofindel said to Aragorn. “We must hurry, or we will be caught by them.”

“I was afraid they had overtaken us.” Aragorn said darkly. “We are all quick on our feet, I am sure.” He turned to the hobbits. “We will not be stopping until we reach Rivendell.” he said. “It is a day’s journey from here.” Pippin did not seem very happy about this, but he said nothing. Sam whispered something to Bill and patted his neck. Glorofindel swung himself up onto his horse.

“I can fit all of the hobbits onto my horse.” he said. “It will not be comfortable, but if it is necessary it can be done.” He nudged his horse, and they set off at a brisk pace.

They had nearly reached the shores of the river when the Riders burst from the trees. There were nine of them. Gilraen froze. The hobbits clutched each other. Glorofindel rode his horse to the front of the group and raised his sword. He shouted something in Quenya that Gilraen could not understand. The Riders shifted nervously.

“Take the hobbits and run!” Aragorn yelled at Gilraen. “Go!”

“What about you?” Gilraen shouted. He had shaken her out of her fearful state, and she drew her sword.

“I will be fine! Go!” Aragorn ordered. Gilraen shoved the hobbits in front of her and into the water. Pippin and Merry raced across the river, Bill trotting after them. Gilraen plunged after them but paused. Sam was standing on the shore, frozen. Frodo was trying to coax him into the water.

“I can’t swim!” Sam wailed.

“You’ll be fine!” Gilraen shouted. “We have to run!” She glanced towards the Riders. Glorofindel was holding them back with blasts of white light. Sighing, Gilraen grabbed Sam and carried him across the water, Frodo running close behind. She put him down when they reached the other side and ran to the front of the group. “Follow me!!” she yelled. As they began to run up the path to the valley, Gilraen looked back. The Ringwraiths had ridden into the river itself and were crossing. She couldn’t see Aragorn or Glorofindel. From the direction of the Bruinen’s source came a roaring sound, and as Gilraen watched, a torrent of water came hurtling down upon the Ringwraiths. It seemed to her that the waves were shaped like horses. She turned away from the sight and continued up the path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't read the books before, that poem about oliphaunts is not mine at all and was snatched from Mr. Jolkien himself. I like it too much to not include it. For those of you who have read the books, yes I did leave Sam's fun poem about trolls and I apologize greatly if you were disappointed by that.


	6. Saruman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and Tinúviel make it to Isengard.

Gandalf and Tinúviel rode hard from Imladris. It was usually a week on horseback to get to the Gap of Rohan, but Gandalf insisted that they use every scrap of daylight they had. It was good weather for riding. The sky had a few clouds in it, and a slight breeze occasionally blew Tinúviel’s hair into her face. They didn’t see any other riders on the road, and only a few animals. On the fifth day of their journey, the mountains opened up in front of them and the Gap of Rohan revealed itself to them. The mountains tumbled down into hills that lined a broad band of grass. It led out onto a wide, open plain. In the distance, a river rushed through the grass.

As they came out from between the mountains, following the river Isen upstream, Tinúviel caught her first sight of Isengard. It was far away, but on the flat plain it could be clearly distinguished. As they rode closer, she could see it in more detail. A river flowed parallel to the Isen from between two tall gates in the stone wall. The wall was so high it concealed everything within, except for the tower, which stretched high above the plain. Behind it loomed a mountain, the last in the long chain that they had followed for their entire journey.

“I do not know if Saruman will be expecting us.” Gandalf said. They rode up to the gate, and Gandalf knocked with his staff. The sound reverberated in a way that was uncommon for wood. They waited as the echo faded, and then the gate sprang open. Standing under the arch was an old man. He had long white hair and beard, except for around his mouth and his eyebrows, which were black. He was wearing a white robe and carried a staff covered in intricate carvings. He smiled when he saw them, but something about it made Tinúviel uneasy.

“Gandalf!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

“Dark things.” Gandalf said gravely. “I must consult with you, Saruman. I have learned something of the ring.” An eager light flashed in Saruman’s eyes. Tinúviel’s hand crept to her sword.

“That is news indeed.” Saruman said. “Come inside.” Gandalf dismounted and began to lead his horse inside. Tinúviel began to follow, but Saruman raised his hand. “Just Gandalf.” he said. “I do not want strangers in my inner sanctum.”

“Tinúviel is one of the Dúnedain.” Gandalf said. “I can vouch for her.”

“Nonetheless, I would like it if she stayed outside the tower.” Saruman said. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“It is all right.” Tinúviel said. She had not wanted to go in, anyway. “I can wait out here with the horses.” Gandalf nodded and followed Saruman through the gate. When they had both walked through, the door closed with an ominous thud. Tinúviel sat on a rock beside the gate and waited. The horses nibbled on the grass. She wondered what Gandalf was telling Saruman. Hopefully she was wrong about him. Time flowed as slowly as a snail. A glowing moth fluttered down from somewhere and landed on her knee. She studied it, curious, then jumped up as Gandalf’s voice echoed out of it.

“Tinúviel! Saruman has betrayed us! Ride to Minas Tirith! You have to find the writings of Isildur! He wrote a description of the object!!” Tinúviel stared at the moth, then up at the tower. Light was flashing from the one window. She launched herself up onto her horse. Gandalf’s horse would probably follow. Saruman would be able to see her, though… Her stomach tightening with anxiety, she pulled the ring out of its pocket in her tunic and slipped it on, kicking her horse into a gallop. Instantly, the world turned gray. She could feel something malignant looking for her. It would find her…but she wanted it to find her. She wanted to be one with it, to gain the power that it was offering. She could be the best warrior, could do everything she wanted to do…

“No!” Tinúviel roared, and with a huge effort ripped the ring from her finger and shoved it back into its pocket. She could feel the horrible presence still lingering, but she did not think it had found her. She pressed herself close to her horse and urged it to go faster.

Tinúviel only stopped moving when her horse was getting too tired to run, and even then, they only rested for a brief time. She did not stop to sleep. When the sun rose, she started to keep an eye out for any Riders of Rohan that might be patrolling the plains. She would go to Edoras and speak with King Théoden. He should hear the news that Saruman had gone over to the enemy. She was not sure if he would listen to the words of a strange woman, but hopefully he was wise enough to hear the truth of what he said.

It was almost noon when she saw a group of men on horseback riding towards her. She turned her horse in their direction and waved a hand to get their attention. Instantly, one of the riders in the front signaled to the rest and they began to gallop directly for her. Tinúviel pulled her horse to a stop and waited.

The riders were an impressive sight. Their helmets were topped with tassels of horsehair that flowed in the wind, and most of them had long hair that also flowed. They stopped as one, and their leader trotted up to Tinúviel. He studied her.

“Who are you, and what business do you have in these lands?” he asked.

“My name is Tinúviel and I am one of the Dúnedain of the north.” Tinúviel said. “I was travelling with the wizard Gandalf the Gray. He has been captured, and I am on my way to Minas Tirith, but I have a message for King Théoden.” The leader of the horsemen considered this.

“What power has captured Gandalf Greyhame?” he asked.

“Saruman the White.” Tinúviel said. The Riders exclaimed in their own language.

“I do not believe that.” the horseman said. “Saruman is an ally of the powers of good. Unless…”

“He has gone over to the enemy.” Tinúviel explained. There was more shocked discussion amongst the Riders.

“This is dire news indeed.” the horseman said. “I am Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark.” He turned to his men and said something in their language, then turned back to Tinúviel. “I will take you to Edoras and vouch for you in front of Théoden.”

“Thank you.” Tinúviel said. Éomer gave some more orders to his men and turned his horse back towards Edoras. Tinúviel and the Riders rode after him


	7. Edoras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinúviel arrives in Edoras and meets some interesting people.

Edoras was perched around the top of a hill and surrounded by a high wall. On the summit of the city was a large hall. It was an impressive sight. The roof was thatched with golden straw. If it had been morning, Tinúviel guessed that it would have shone in the sunlight. They walked their horses up the street and to the door, where a tall man was standing at attention. He saluted Éomer.

            “My lord,” he said. “We were not expecting you for another week.”

            “My plans changed, Háma.” Éomer said. “I am escorting a messenger for King Théoden.” Háma stared at Tinúviel.

            “I see.” he said. “I do not think Wormtongue will like that.”

            “Wormtongue is not the king.” Éomer said sharply. “You will have to leave your weapons with Háma.” he said to Tinúviel. “It is a policy of my uncle’s.” Something about his tone told her that it was not a policy he approved of. She laid her sword and daggers next to the door.

            “That sword has been in my family for generations.” she said to Háma. “Keep it safe.” He nodded, staring at her nervously. She followed Éomer into the hall. It was just as impressive inside as it was outside. The walls were lined with intricate tapestries, documenting the history of the Rohirrim. There were several passages leading off of the main hall leading to other parts of the building. At the end of the hall was a throne, and on the throne was an elderly man. He had snow-white hair and a bushy beard. His skin was almost translucent with age. Sitting in a smaller chair by his side was a small man with ghost white skin and stringy black hair. He resembled a hungry frog. Behind the throne stood a young woman. Her hair was long and blond, her skin was pale, and her eyes were blue and cold. She was standing stiffly, her hands clasped in front of her. She closely resembled Éomer, so much so that Tinúviel guessed that they were siblings. Éomer stopped a few feet before the throne and took his helmet off. His hair fell in a golden wave to just below his shoulders.

            “Éomer.” the greasy man said, raising a thin eyebrow. “You have returned early. And you bring a woman, wearing armor, no less. Interesting.”

            “My lord.” Éomer said, bowing low and ignoring the greasy man. Tinúviel followed his example. “I present to you Tinúviel of the Dúnedain. She brings a message.”

            “The Dúnedain.” the man snorted. “A high term for what I perceive to be just a bunch of woodsmen lurking in the woods, playacting at–”

            “Be silent, Wormtongue.” Éomer ordered. “Let her speak.”

            “I would hear what she has to say, Gríma.” King Théoden said. His voice was brittle and creaked.

            “Thank you, my lord.” Tinúviel said, bowing to him again. “I bring dire news. I was traveling to Minas Tirith with Gandalf the Gray–”

            “A charlatan!” Gríma exclaimed. Tinúviel thought she knew where he had received the name Háma and Éomer had given to him.

            “Gandalf the Gray, of the White Council, called Mithrandir in these parts.” Tinúviel continued, ignoring him. “We came through the Gap of Rohan and stopped at Isengard to consult Saruman on some important matters.”

            “Which were what?” Gríma asked.

            “Not business for the likes of you.” Tinúviel spat, startled at her own anger. She was not usually one to be openly angry with someone in a position of power.

            “Listen to this backwoods whore!” Gríma exclaimed. “She insults the counselors of the king!” Tinúviel clenched her fists. If they had not been in the hall of a king, she would have beaten Gríma Wormtongue to a pulp right where he stood.

            “Counselor is a strong word, Gríma Wormtongue.” Éomer said. “Poisoner, more like.”

            “Listen to this!” Wormtongue cried. “Théoden, you cannot allow this!” Théoden regarded him quietly.

            “Éomer would not bring someone to me if he did not think they had something of value to say.” he said. “Be silent and allow the poor woman to finish.”

            “Our business is highly secret.” Tinúviel said. “Saruman and Gandalf went into the inner sanctum to discuss it, and I remained outside. I received a magical message from Gandalf about ten minutes later that told me that he had been imprisoned by Saruman, and that Saruman had turned to evil.”

            “How did he have time to send you that message if he were captured?” Wormtongue asked.

            “I am not sure.” Tinúviel said. “I do not think that he would send it if it were not true. He would have put more instructions in it, for one thing.”

            “Do you have any substantial proof?” Théoden asked. “This is a weighty accusation.”

            “Only my word, my lord.” Tinúviel said. “I swear to you that it is true.”

            “I believe her.” Éomer declared. “I do not think she would tell such a wild tale if it were not true.”

            “Saruman would never betray the West to the Enemy!” Wormtongue exclaimed. “Gandalf must have killed him and sent this harlot to feed us these lies.”

            “What motive would Gandalf have?” Éomer said.

            “He has gone over to the Enemy!” Wormtongue said. “It is obvious.” Théoden frowned, clearly considering the issue.

            “Here is what I will do.” he said. “I will let Tinúviel continue on to Minas Tirith and send an escort with her. If she proves to be false, then Lord Denethor will rule accordingly. I will also send Éomer and his men to Isengard to see if what she says is true. I will give her one of the guest rooms for the night. Éomer, ask one of the servants to bring her to one.” Éomer bowed and strode to the door.

            “Thank you, my lord.” Tinúviel said, bowing. Wormtongue gave her a terrible look.

            “It is an abomination, letting women fight.” she heard him say as she walked away. “Her people must be desperate.”

            The room Tinúviel had been given was small yet serviceable. There was a window that looked out over the city, and a colorful braided rug. The bed was a welcome change from the ground. She took the time to clean and polish her boots and other leather gear. If she had been allowed her sword she would have sharpened that, but she would have to wait for when she got to Minas Tirith. She sat on the bed and thought over the events of the past few days. Losing Gandalf was a huge upset. Tinúviel had no idea what he had wanted to find in the writings of Isildur. Perhaps it was something pertaining to the ring. Hopefully someone in Minas Tirith would know. Tinúviel sighed and curled up on the bed. She was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

It was only a few hours after she went to sleep that she was awakened by the sound of clattering metal. Gríma Wormtongue had accidentally knocked her sword over from where it was leaning against a chair. He was standing frozen in place, a dagger in his hand. She sprang from her bed and lunged at him. Gríma yelled and retaliated, his dagger waving wildly in the air. Tinúviel dodged his weapon and swept his legs out from under him. She shoved a knee into his back and pinned him to the ground. She reached for her pack with one arm and pulled out the rope she kept there. It was a struggle to tie him up, as he kept wriggling around, but she managed it. With that completed, Tinúviel went to the door and waved down a maid walking by

“Please wake Lord Éomer and King Théoden and bring them here.” Tinúviel said. “They may want to bring soldiers. I have caught Gríma Wormtongue in my room attempting to kill me.” The maid gaped at her and hurried off. Tinúviel leaned against the doorframe and stared at Wormtongue.

“The king will not believe you.” he snarled. “He is under my influence.”

“The king will have to believe his eyes.” Tinúviel said. “There is no good explanation for this.” Wormtongue glared at her. Tinúviel glared back. The sound of hurrying boots came from the hall and Éomer and two men entered the room.

“Wormtongue, you slug.” Éomer said. “Were you trying to kill Tinúviel and make it seem like she had fled in the middle of the night? You were no match for her, I see.” There was the sound of more feet and the king appeared in the door.

“What has happened?” Théoden asked, regarding the scene with a surprised air.

“I woke up in the middle of the night to see Gríma standing beside my bed with a knife in his hand. I reacted accordingly.” Tinúviel reported as if she were back home and was giving a report of a mission to Aragorn.

“Gríma, what do you have to say for yourself?” Éomer asked, nudging the advisor with his foot.

“I have been framed!” Wormtongue protested. “She kidnapped me and tied me here!”

“Why would I do that?” Tinúviel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She is right.” Éomer said. “The only person in this situation who has motivation is Wormtongue.” Théoden looked sad and drained. He let out a long sigh.

“I cannot understand it, but I can see that it is true.” he said. “Gríma Wormtongue, I charge you with attempted murder. Guards, take him to the prison to await trial.” Tinúviel bent to untie her knot so that the guards could easily carry Wormtongue off.

“I am sorry you had to have that happen.” Théoden said once they had left. “I do not know why he would do that. He has always been a trusted and loyal advisor.” Éomer made a disgusted face.

“I think I might have an idea.” Tinúviel said. “I have no proof of this, but I suspect that he may be an agent of Saruman’s. It explains why he was so bent on discrediting me.”

“We will see.” Théoden said. “When do you ride out?”

“Early tomorrow morning, my lord.” Tinúviel replied. Théoden nodded.

“I will still send one of my men with you, just to be safe.” he said.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Tinúviel said, bowing low. “I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep.” Théoden smiled and nodded.

“Good night.” he said. “I wish you a safe journey. Come, Éomer.” They walked down the hallway. When they had left, Tinúviel returned to her bed.

             

            The next morning, Tinúviel was saddling her horse when Éomer’s sister approached her. She kept looking over her shoulder nervously, as if she was afraid that someone would try to stop her.

            “What is it, my lady?” Tinúviel asked, pausing in her work.

            “What is it like, riding to battle?” the woman asked without any preamble. “Is it like they describe it in the stories?” She stared at Tinúviel with a kind of wild desire in her eyes. Tinúviel regarded her over the horse, thinking of what to say to her.

            “I have never been in a battle like the ones in the stories.” she said finally. “I have fought orcs and other servants of the Dark Lord, but they have always been small skirmishes in the woods. No glory, no wild charges, nothing like the songs. Just you and your comrades fighting for your lives. Maybe soon we will all experience an epic battle like they had in the time of Elendil or Eorl the Young. But I have not yet.”

            “I have always wanted to ride for glory with the Riders.” the woman said. “I can only imagine it from what the minstrels say.”

            “Perhaps it is different.” Tinúviel mused. “Your time for glory will come, as it may come for us all.” The woman scowled

            “It will not come for me.” she said, looking at the ground with a scowl. “My uncle says that doing battle is work for men, and that I must stay and learn to care for my people.”

            “That can be noble, in its way.” Tinúviel said. “But I understand, I think. Maybe when the day comes for all the allies of the West to ride out against the darkness, he will change his mind.”

            “Maybe.” Éomer’s sister said. “I wish you a safe journey.” Tinúviel bowed.

            “Thank you, my lady.” she said. “I hope you can find your happiness.” Soon after the woman had left, the stable door opened once again and a small person in the uniform of one of the Rohirrim entered. He was wearing a helmet, so Tinúviel could not see his face, but he must have been barely an adult.

            “I am your escort.” he announced. Something was a little odd about his voice. “Are you ready to ride out.”

            “Yes.” Tinúviel said, studying him. She wondered why Théoden had chosen to send a boy with her. Perhaps he really did trust her. The boy went to one of the stables and led a small warhorse out of it, already saddled up and ready to go. They swung into their saddles and left the stable.

They rode slowly down the slope of the city. It was early and there were not many people on the streets, but the few who were out paused to stare at Tinúviel and her companion. She wondered if word had spread that quickly. When they had passed the city gates, the boy nudged his horse into a trot. Tinúviel followed suit.

            “What is your name?” Tinúviel asked after about an hour of silence. The boy did not reply. Tinúviel repeated herself, and still there was no response. She tried again, louder this time.

            “Did you say something?” the boy asked, turning to look at her.

            “What is your name?” Tinúviel asked again, loud and slow. She wondered why he had been allowed to be a soldier if he had trouble hearing things.

            “Holdwyn.” the boy said. “My name is Holdwyn. What’s yours?”

            “Tinúviel.” Tinúviel said, wondering why the king had not told this boy. Something was off.

            “Pleased to meet you.” Holdwyn said. He turned forward again. They continued in silence.

            “Why did the king choose you to escort me to Minas Tirith?” Tinúviel asked, making sure she was being loud.

            “He…he thought I needed…. some experience.” the boy said, stumbling over his words. Now Tinúviel was suspicious.

            “You were not chosen, were you.” she said. Holdwyn turned back towards her and took his helmet off. He had blond chin-length hair that looked like it had been cut with a poorly-wielded knife. His face was round and soft, and his skin was so pale that Tinúviel doubted he had spent a day of his life outside. He was definitely not a soldier.

            “I’m not a soldier.” he said. “I’m not even a man.”

            “I figured that out.” Tinúviel said.

            “I thought you might understand.” Holdwyn said. “Since you’re a warrior woman, too.” Tinúviel stared at her. “My father won’t let me fight. He doesn’t think it’s proper for a noble woman to know how to fight. My older brother taught me how to ride and to use a sword in secret. I tricked the man who was supposed to go with you into not leaving on time and I took his place. I want to go to Minas Tirith because I think they might accept me and let me fight for them.”

            “What is your real name, then?” Tinúviel asked.

            “It’s Holdwyn.” the girl said. “I knew you probably didn’t know anything about our names.”

            “Well, Holdwyn, I do not want to turn around now that we are three hours into this journey.” Tinúviel said. “I do not think you should be on this journey with me.”

            “Why not?” Holdwyn asked defiantly. “You’re a woman, and you fight.”

            “I have thirty-five years of extensive training in fighting and riding, and first-hand experience in a wide range of terrains and dire situations.” Tinúviel said. “I will need every scrap of that where I am going.”

            “Minas Tirith?” Holdwyn asked skeptically.

            “Mordor.” Tinúviel said. “In any case, I do not think someone with limited hearing should be out on the plains. If something were to go wrong, you might not hear my instructions.”

            “I can hear!” Holdwyn cried. “A little bit.” Tinúviel sighed.

            “I will figure out what to do with you in Minas Tirith.” she said. “For now, you can stay. For _now_.” she emphasized, as Holdwyn’s face brightened.


	8. Father and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinúviel and Holdwyn meet the Steward and his sons, and begin to hunt for the information that Gandalf hoped to find.

They reached the city in three days. It appeared on the horizon in the morning of the last day, a white tower surrounded by skirts of stone buildings and streets. It clung to a wall of rock, and its bright stone sparkled in the sunlight. They reached the gates just after the sun had passed its zenith. Up close, the walls dwarfed Tinúviel and Holdwyn. 

“When we meet the Steward, you will remain silent.” Tinúviel instructed. “I do not know anything about him, and it would be best to not anger him.” Holdwyn nodded. For someone who was hard of hearing, she had talked an awful lot during their ride.

“Who goes there?” a guard on the wall called. Tinúviel stopped her horse and peered up at him.

“We are here to see the Steward.” she said. “Mithrandir sent us.” The guard had a brief discussion with his fellows. The outcome of the conversation must have been in their favor, because the gates creaked open. They were greeted by one of the soldiers. He was not wearing a helmet. He had light brown shoulder length hair that was tightly curled and light brown skin.     

“Welcome to Minas Tirith.” he said, smiling. “You can put your horses up in the stables over there.” He pointed towards a long building beside the stairs up to the battlements. They led their horses to the stable and followed their guide up the hill. There was no vegetation to be seen. The people bustled about, sometimes pausing to stare at the visitors, but usually they ignored them. There was a quiet tension about the citizens. The city was divided into levels by gates, and at each gate the soldier nodded to the guards and they were let past. At the tower, the door guard there regarded Tinúviel with the same expression the people of Rohan had used, but let them in.

To get to the tower, they passed through a courtyard. It represented the first sign of plant life Tinúviel had seen since they had entered the city. There were a few beds of flowers, and grass poked through the cobblestones. In the very center was a dead tree. There was a fountain beside the tree that burbled happily, but it did not good to mask the somber quality the tree gave the courtyard. Tinúviel paused to look at it.

“Is this the tree Elendil brought from Númenor?” she asked the soldier. He regarded it solemnly.

“It is a clipping from the original.” he said. “It has been dead ever since the line of kings failed.” Tinúviel stood in silence. She had heard stories of the tree but had never thought she would see it in person. It was humbling.

“Is that the tree that’s on the flag?” Holdwyn asked. Tinúviel nodded. Holdwyn stared at the tree with wide eyes.

Upon reaching the throne room at last. the first thing Tinúviel noticed was the statues. Starting from the door, there were huge statues of the kings of Gondor. Tinúviel assumed that was what they were, as several of them bore a striking resemblance to Aragorn. At the end of the long hall was a set of steps, at the top of which was an elaborate throne. Sitting down a step from the throne in a simple wooden chair was an old man. He had shoulder length, thick gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard. His robes were black and magnificent. The soldier that had been leading them bowed, and Tinúviel and Holdwyn followed suit.

“My lord.” their guide said. “These people are on a mission from the wizard Mithrandir.” Lord Denethor regarded them with a shrewd eye.

“Why has Mithrandir not come himself?” he asked. “That is not like him. He loves to involve himself in the business of others.”

“He has been imprisoned by Saruman the White.” Tinúviel declared. Denethor stared at her.

“You lie.” he said. “Saruman is the leader of the White Council. He is an ally of our cause. He would not capture Gandalf. That is preposterous. Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Tinúviel, and I am one of the Dúnedain.” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. Denethor’s eyes widened in surprise. “This is my companion, Holdwyn of the Rohirrim. I swear on my life that I do not lie. King Théoden is investigating my claims, and I believe he will be sending you a message to inform you of my trustworthiness.” Denethor regarded her thoughtfully, clearly considering this information.

“I know that you and your kind are trustworthy people.” he said finally. “I will choose to believe you. How long will you be staying here?”

“I have other business than just carrying a message.” Tinúviel said. “We will require use of your library for reasons of the utmost secrecy.”

“You will have use of all of the resources we can offer.” Denethor said. “However, I will have to ask that you allow me to put a guard on you. We cannot be too trusting in these times. Dirhael here is trustworthy enough, when it comes to things of discretion.” He shot a disapproving look at the soldier. “It will keep him out of trouble.” Dirhael looked like he was about to retort but seemed to contain himself. “He will show you to the guest rooms, and then to wherever you wish to go. You may dine with me. Dirhael knows when dinner begins.”

“Thank you, lord.” Tinúviel said and bowed again. Holdwyn followed her example. Dirhael led them out of the hall and through the tower to their rooms.

The rooms that had been assigned to them were across from each other. Tinúviel’s looked out across the city and towards the plain. It was small, and had a bed, a small table and chair, and a wardrobe. There was a vase of dried flowers on the windowsill, and a dark blue rug on the ground. Tinúviel took her spare set of clothes out of her pack and put them into the wardrobe. Hopefully Denethor’s offer of every resource they needed included a long bath and facilities to wash clothing in. Once everything was neatly put away, she left her room and went over to Holdwyn’s. Her room was the same as Tinúviel’s, except it looked out onto a small garden on a balcony below them.

“I didn’t know they had gardens here!” Holdwyn said, pointing at the window. She was putting the contents of her saddlebags in the closet. They were mainly very practical clothing items.

“You packed well.” Tinúviel commented as Holdwyn pulled a winter cloak and a thick coil of rope from her bags.

“My brother helped.” Holdwyn said. “He told me to be prepared for everything.” She tugged a set of interlocking pans out of the pack and laid them on the bed. “What are we looking for in the library, anyway?”

“The writings of Isildur.” Tinúviel said. “You can help me, but it is incredibly dangerous information and I will not be sharing what it is with you. I hope for your sake that it is written in Elvish of some kind.” Holdwyn stared at her.

“Why?” she asked. “What could be in them?”

“Things you could never fathom.” Tinúviel said darkly. Holdwyn returned to unpacking, looking very nervous. There was a knock on the door, and Dirhael entered. He had left on ‘important business’ after showing them to the rooms. Whatever the important business was, it had left his clothing very rumpled.

“Where to now?” he asked, smiling cheerily. Tinúviel considered the options.

“To the library.” she said. “We can get started as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Dirhael said. He led the way through the corridors of the tower and to a room tucked into a corner of the second to last floor. It was a huge library. Floor to ceiling windows illuminated large shelves packed with books of all shapes and sizes. Tables were scattered throughout, and a few older men sat at these, pouring over books and making notes on parchment. A few of them looked up when they entered, but they returned to their reading after giving Tinúviel the shocked stare she was becoming so used to.

“Welcome to the library of Minas Tirith.” Dirhael said dramatically in a quiet voice. “What do you need to look at?”

“The writings of Isildur.” Tinúviel said. “Do not ask what about, for I cannot tell you.” Dirhael considered the rows of shelves.

“I think those would be back here.” he said. He led them through the shelves to a dark corner in the back of the library. A row of huge bookshelves loomed there, stuffed full of ancient scrolls. Tinúviel gazed up at them. It would take days to read through all of them, even with Holdwyn helping.

“I wish Gandalf were here.” she muttered. He would know exactly what to look for. “We can start with the top shelf.” she said to Holdwyn. “If you find a reference to a ring, give the book to me. That goes for anything in Elvish. I can read that.”

“My friend can, too.” Dirhael offered. “He spends a lot of time in here. I can go find him if you want more help…”

“I want as few people in on this as possible.” Tinúviel said. Dirhael nodded, saluted, and strode away to return to his duties. Tinúviel went to the shelf, climbed onto a chair, and pulled down a stack of books.

They worked until the sun began to set and a servant came in to inform them that it was time for dinner. They did not find a single reference to a ring, although Holdwyn found a collection of drawings by some ancient king that they both wished they could forget about. The servant led them to the dining hall. There was a long table clearly intended for feasting, and tapestries depicting great moments in the history of Gondor covered the walls. At the head of the table sat Denethor, and on either side of him sat two men. The one on the right was tall and broad-chested. He resembled Denethor greatly. His hair was shoulder length and black, and his beard was trimmed close to his chin. His eyes were gray, and his face was proud and stern. The other man was slighter and younger, but just as tall. His hair was also shoulder length and black, and he had a very sparse beard. His face was kind and thoughtful. They looked enough alike that Tinúviel thought that they must be brothers. 

“Welcome.” Denethor said. “Take a seat.” Tinúviel sat beside the younger brother and Holdwyn took the chair opposite her. At once, servants carrying trays of food descended upon the table. 

“This is Tinúviel of the Dúnedain.” Denethor said to his sons as they began to eat. “Her companion is…”

“Holdwyn, of Rohan.” Tinúviel replied. She sensed that while Holdwyn was welcome at the table, the Steward regarded her as a servant.  

“I did not know the Dúnedain allowed women to fight.” the elder of Denethor’s sons said curiously. “Do many of you fight, or is it just you?”

“The majority of my people defend the land from the evils of Sauron, yes.” Tinúviel said carefully. He seemed to be genuinely curious, not hostile. “Not all women fight, but not all men fight. Some people have different callings. All of my sisters and brothers are warriors, but our mother is not. Our father was, but that was mainly because his father pressured him into it.”

“Interesting.” the man said. “I have suggested the idea of allowing our women to train to fight, but Father is not keen on the idea.”

“Boromir has a point.” his brother said, shooting an unreadable glance at their father. “We have limited troops, and many able-bodied women.”

“We will not have this argument again.” Denethor said angrily. “Especially not in front of our _guests_.” The brothers made eye contact across the table.

“How goes the fight in the South?” Tinúviel asked, hoping to steer the subject away from things that would cause conflict. “We do not get much news in the North.” That was not strictly true, but she needed a subject of conversation.

“As well as it could.” Boromir said. “We lost Osgiliath to the enemy last week, but we are planning to take it back.”

“A plan that is insane and should not happen.” the younger brother interjected. “We are outnumbered.”

“Other than that, we are holding the enemy back.” Boromir continued, shooting a look at his brother. “Nothing has left the lands to the East without us knowing.”

“Osgiliath is that city that went to the Shadow ages and ages ago, isn’t it?” Holdwyn asked. “Why do you want to take it back?” Tinúviel opened her mouth to discipline her for speaking so bluntly to the ruler of the city’s son, but the younger brother interrupted her.

“Boromir and my father believe that it is an essential stronghold in the battle against darkness.” he said. “It has many strategic advantages, but it is currently taken by a strong force of the Enemy. It would be _suicide_ to try to take it.” He glared at his brother. Tinúviel relaxed. She supposed they were treating Holdwyn as they perceived her; a young boy of little status or education.

“We are still strong.” Denethor said. “No matter what Faramir says, we can take Osgiliath back.” Faramir’s eyes flashed, but he did not continue the conversation.

“Where do you plan on going once you have completed what you are doing here?” Boromir asked Tinúviel.

“It is secret.” Tinúviel said. “The nature of our mission is only known to a few. I cannot trust people I do not know well, no matter their status.” Boromir nodded approvingly. Denethor scowled. Tinúviel suspected he was not used to people keeping things from him. They continued to eat in silence. Tinúviel peered at Denethor and his sons out of the corner of her eye. There was a quiet tension to their relationship. Faramir and Boromir seemed to be a united front against their father, but she could not tell what they were standing up to.

When they finished the meal, Holdwyn declared that she was tired and going to bed. The sun had barely set. Dirhael was nowhere to be found. Tinúviel had searched the tower, but none of the guards had seen him. Feeling a little guilty that she was breaking Denethor’s trust by going about without her escort, she returned to the library. It was dark and empty. She took a candle from a rack by the door and lit it from the torch outside. A mouse skittered past her boot as she crept through the stacks, feeling distinctly like she was doing something wrong. As she drew closer to the shelves of ancient books, Tinúviel thought she could hear someone talking quietly. She froze. At the very back of the library where the books she was looking for were, a candle was flickering. Tinúviel blew her candle out and padded forward, keeping close to the shelves. As she drew closer, she could see the outline of two people sitting very close together at the table. Their backs were to her. One of them appeared to be perusing a book, and the other had their head on their companion’s shoulder. Tinúviel had never been in a relationship herself and did not plan on being one in the near future, but she suspected that reading a book late at night in the back of a library was not a typical romantic outing. Whatever could these people be doing? She stepped out from behind the shelves and cleared her throat. Instantly, the two people, who she could now see were Dirhael and Faramir, sprang apart. Dirhael knocked a chair over in his flight, and Faramir tripped over his chair’s legs and fell over onto the ground. Tinúviel stepped back, surprised by their reaction. She knew she had probably startled them, but she had not expected this.

“Holy  _ shit _ , Tinúviel!” Dirhael cursed, his voice shooting up at least two octaves. “What are you doing here? At this hour?”

“I was going to do more research.” Tinúviel said. “I am sorry for not giving more warning.”

“Fuck!” Dirhael said. He seemed to react to surprise by cursing. “I thought you were Denethor. Are you all right, Faramir?” Faramir stood up from where he had fallen and brushed himself off. His hands were shaking.

“I am fine.” he said, his voice trembling. Tinúviel walked around the table and picked up one of the books that were stacked next to the candle. It was written in an archaic lettering and had probably come from the shelf.

“Are you doing my research for me?” she asked.

“Perhaps.” Dirhael said cagily.

“He told me about it and I was intrigued.” Faramir said, sitting down. Dirhael took the seat next to him. “I think I might be able to help you.”

“I told you bringing more people into this is dangerous.” Tinúviel said, glaring at Dirhael. “This is serious, beyond anything you could comprehend.”

“Isildur’s Bane has been dredged up from the deeps of time, has it not?” Faramir asked, leaning across the table and lowering his voice significantly. Tinúviel tensed. “Do not worry; I understand the importance of secrecy in this task.

“I do not, so you needn’t worry about me.” Dirhael said cheerfully.

“That is exactly why I should worry about you.” Tinúviel said. “This…object, it has tempted the greatest of men.” Her fingers absently touched the ring where it sat in her pocket. “I would not trust my own mother with the knowledge of it.”

“They call it Isildur’s Bane for good reason.” Faramir said quietly. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I will not breathe a word of this to anyone.” He stared at her, his gray eyes solemn.

“I am sorry to say I can’t swear on anything quite like that,” Dirhael said, “But I can swear on my honor as a soldier of Gondor that I will not tell a single soul in the entire land anything of what we learn here.”

“Very well.” Tinúviel said. She trusted them, although she did not know why. “I am looking for an account by Isildur of a ring. It makes the wearer invisible and was forged by the Dark Lord himself.” Dirhael gaped. “I do not know specifically what we are looking for because Gandalf was the one whose mission this was, and he did not tell me. Any information is good information.”

“Good old Mithrandir.” Dirhael said, smiling. “He does love his mysteries. Shall we begin?” He cracked open the book on top of the pile and began to read.


	9. The Council of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives at Rivendell. Discussions are held about how to proceed.

The sun shining through a gap in the curtains woke Gilraen up. She sat up and stretched, then rolled out of bed. Her room was tucked into a corner of Rivendell, and its windows looked out over the garden. Someone had left her a clean tunic and trousers on the back of the chair, which she put on. She left the scarf that protected her hair while she slept on and, pulling her boots on, left her room in search of breakfast.

Gilraen and the hobbits had arrived in Rivendell completely out of breath, having sprinted the entire way up the hill and down into the valley. Glorofindel and Aragorn had arrived shortly after; the flood had swept the Ringwraiths downstream and far away from where they would be any trouble. The elves had not been surprised to see them, but then again, they were never surprised by anything. It had been very late, so Gilraen and the hobbits had gone off to bed soon after they arrived. Aragorn and Elrond had disappeared to discuss the situation they faced. Gilraen supposed there would probably be a council of some sort. She walked down to the ground floor and found the hobbits sitting around a table in a corner of the main hall eating a variety of breakfast foods that the elves had provided. Gilraen took an empty seat and piled a plate with cakes and fruit.

“Had a good sleep?” she asked, putting an entire strawberry in her mouth.

“The best.” Pippin said. “This place is so soothing. It must be the elf magic.”

“It’s a good place to be.” Gilraen said. “I’ve only been once before, when I was very small, but I’ve never forgotten it.” A pair of elf children walked passed their table. They paused to stare at the hobbits, then scurried away giggling when they saw that they had been observed.

“I did not realize there were elf children.” Frodo said. “I suppose it makes sense, but elves always seem like they have always been ancient.”

“There aren’t many.” Gilraen said. “There was only one when I was here. They mature quickly emotionally but very slowly physically. I think Nemiriel was in her twenties, but she looked like she was my age.”

“Is she still around?” Merry asked curiously, staring after the elf children.

“No.” Gilraen said. “Her family left for the Havens after I went back to the Dúnedain.”

“Why were you living in Rivendell?” Pippin wondered. Gilraen put a biscuit in her mouth to avoid answering right away.

“My parents were killed by orcs when I was seven.” she said when she was finished. “It was just down the river from here. Some elves found me wandering in the forest and they brought me to live here. Aragorn took me back to the camp when I was nine.” She ate another cake, staring fixedly at a point in between Frodo and Merry.

“I’m sorry.” Frodo said.

“It was eighteen years ago.” Gilraen said offhandedly. “It’s fine. I’ve finished the whole grief cycle.”

“Good morning, everyone.” Aragorn had appeared from wherever he and Elrond had cloistered themselves. “Gilraen, there is going to be a council this afternoon. You can come. Frodo, you too. You three,” he gestured at the younger hobbits, “can find somewhere to go. It is a council of war, and not your place to be.” Sam looked sulky. “And absolutely no helping them sneak in.” Aragorn said sternly to Gilraen. “I know you were thinking about it.”

“That’s my job. Mischief.” Gilraen said. “I understand, though. Don’t worry.” She beamed innocently up at him. It had not occurred to her that she help the hobbits sneak into the meeting. She could tell from the expressions on Merry and Pippin’s faces that they had begun to formulate a plan for getting into the meeting.

She spent the rest of the morning reading a thick book of legends in the library. She had loved it as a small girl, and it still held the same excitement that she remembered. When it was noon, a bell somewhere in the house rang. Gilraen put the book back on the shelf and hurried through the halls to the council room. There was a small group of the lords of the house and a few strangers sitting around the table, talking quietly amongst themselves. She took the empty seat next to Frodo. On his other side was Aragorn, and on Aragorn’s other side was Lady Arwen herself. Gilraen had harbored a small crush on Arwen from when she was seven until she was twelve, when she discovered that Arwen and Aragorn were for all intents and purposes engaged.

“Arwen!” Gilraen said, leaning across Frodo to greet the elf. “How have you been?”

“I have been fine, Gilraen.” Arwen said, smiling. “How are you? I barely ever hear anything anymore from the camp.”

“Oh, I’m great.” Gilraen said. “Impending doom aside, life is good.”

“Do you know who that dwarf is?” Frodo asked, pointing at an old dwarf talking to Glorofindel. He had a majestic white beard and a magnificent brown bald head that practically glowed in the light from the lamps. A younger dwarf with thick black hair was standing beside him.

“I believe that is Glóin of the Lonely Mountain.” Arwen said. “He is here with his son Gimli with news from their people.”

“He is one of the dwarves who traveled with my uncle!” Frodo exclaimed. “I wonder if he’s seen him?” Arwen smiled mysteriously.

“Perhaps.” she said. The doors opened, and Elrond swept into the room. He took his seat at the head of the table.

“Let us begin.” he said grandly. “We are gathered here to discuss the war in the West, and the stakes at hand. First, we should address an issue that has sparked many rumors; the Ring.” There was an explosion of murmurs around the table. Elves stared at their neighbors. Gilraen chewed her lip. Did Elrond have news of Tinúviel? “It has been found.” The murmurs fell away to dead silence. “As we speak, it is being carried to Mordor by Gandalf the Gray and Tinúviel of the Dúnedain. It has been thirteen days, and I have not had any news from them. They should be in Minas Tirith by now.”

“We have had word of a ring, or rings, of power.” Gimli exclaimed, standing. “A few weeks past, a black messenger from Mordor came to the Lonely Mountain.” The elves gasped.

“What did it want?” Elrond inquired, leaning forward.

 “I did not see it myself, but I heard tell that it was a huge robed figure, and riding upon a black horse.” Gimli said. “All who came near it were affected by a black chill and felt despair in their hearts. It told King Dain that it would return to him three of the rings that were given to the dwarves in exchange for news of the Shire, and of Baggins. Dain refused, and the messenger was angry. It said it hoped he would reconsider. We have barred our gates from visitors ever since, and my father and I came as fast as we could here to warn Bilbo Baggins of the threat to him.” Frodo looked very nervous. Gilraen glanced over at Aragorn, but his face was inscrutable.

“We know that the Ringwraiths know about Bilbo, the mystery is just how they know.” he said finally. “The only person outside of our circle I thought knew about that was Gollum.”

“That brings us to my business.” a young elf said, standing. His hair was long, black, and straight, and his skin was a deep brown. “Sméagol, known as Gollum, has escaped!” There was an uproar. Elves shouted questions at Legolas, and it became impossible to hear anything. Elrond pounded the table.

“Silence!” he exclaimed. “Legolas, continue. How did he escape?”

“We thought that if we were kind to him, we would be able to cure him of the darkness inside.” Legolas said. “We would let him out to walk among the trees and see the stars.”

“That is more kindness than you offered me.” Glóin said, scowling. Gilraen was not sure what he was referring to. She suspected that it was an aspect of the story of the dwarves’ quest that had been left out of the version that had traveled to the Dúnedain camp.

“We were very vigilant, for he tried to run on occasion.” Legolas continued, disregarding Glóin. “We allowed him to walk above ground, but we always had a guard of our strongest warriors watching him. On this particular night it was very dark, for the moon was new. Gollum climbed up a tree to see the stars, and then refused to come down. His guards attempted to bargain with him, but it was to no avail. They posted a guard around the base of the tree, but late that night they were attacked by orcs. All of the guards were killed, and Gollum escaped.”

“That is dire news.” Elrond said solemnly. “So, it was Gollum who gave the information to Sauron.”

            “He has contacts within the borders.” Aragorn said. “When Gandalf and I caught him, he was returning from Mordor. It is the only way I can fathom him getting in and out alive.”

            “They do not know the true whereabouts of the ring, and that comforts me.” Elrond said. “I am sure we will soon receive word from Gandalf as to their progress.”

            “Unless something has gone wrong.” Aragorn said under his breath. Arwen and Gilraen both shot him looks.

            “The idea that Aragorn had, and that I support, is that we send a party of nine south to inform the kings that the elves are willing to provide their help in the war and see how the situation is.” Elrond said. “Nine walkers for the nine riders. Aragorn has already volunteered to lead.”

            “I will go.” Gilraen said immediately.

            “Yes, I thought as much.” Elrond said, nodding. “Legolas and Gimli, would you be willing to go as representatives of your people?”

            “Gladly.” Gimli said, bowing slightly. Legolas nodded his consent.

            “I will go as well.” Arwen said. Elrond opened his mouth to protest, but Arwen raised a hand. “The party will need all the power they can get, and we will need elves here as well. I will go so that those more powerful and wise will be able to stay.” Elrond sighed, but nodded.

            “Very well. Arwen will go for my house.” he said. “That makes five. Who else shall I send?”

            “I will go.” Frodo volunteered. “My family had a hand in this, and I can help to end it.”

            “If Frodo goes, I’ll go too!” Sam exclaimed, springing up from a corner where he had been sitting quietly. Half of the council, including Gilraen, jumped in surprise.

            “It wasn’t me!” she mouthed at Aragorn, who was looking at her suspiciously.

            “Do you understand what you are getting yourself into, young hobbit?” Elrond asked. He seemed amused by Sam’s presence.

            “Well…no…” Sam said awkwardly. “But you’ll need a cook on this adventure, and I can do that!”

            “Do any of us really understand what we are getting ourselves into?” Gilraen murmured to her neighbors. Arwen nodded sagely.

            “That means we have a count of two to fill.” Elrond said. “I can pick members of my house, or we can send off to the other realms for–”

            “That’s space for us, then!” Merry and Pippin had also been lurking in a corner. The elves gaped. Gilraen tried not to laugh. Aragorn sighed.

            “How did you get in here?” Elrond exclaimed. “No matter. This is a long and dangerous journey. I do not think it is the place for young hobbits. I was planning on sending you back home to help your people prepare for the coming war.”

            “Wherever Frodo goes, we go.” Pippin said defiantly. “You’ll have to send me home tied in a sack!” Elrond looked helplessly at Aragorn.

            “It is probably useless to try to stop them from coming with us.” Aragorn conceded. “It will be safer for them to come legitimately than for them to attempt to sneak after us. I am opposed to it myself, but I recognize that it is impossible to separate these four, even when one of them was summoned to a _secret and closed meeting_.” He shot another look at Gilraen.

            “Very well.” Elrond said. “Nine companions it is, although it is a different group than I was imagining. But, I am sure it will still serve our purposes.”

            “Oh good.” Pippin said. “Where are we going, again?”


	10. Into the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinúviel and her assistants continue to read through the books in the library and find something interesting. Family drama happens. Tinúviel and Holdwyn are going to Ithilien!

The morning after Tinúviel walked in on Dirhael and Faramir, she knocked on Holdwyn’s door and was answered promptly.

            “I have decided that I ought to tell you the purpose of my mission.” Tinúviel said once she had entered the room and shut the door. “You may try to follow me on the rest of it, and I cannot have you do that without knowing what you are getting yourself into.”

            “I am prepared for anything.” Holdwyn said, sitting on the bed and looking up at her expectantly. “Well, almost anything.”

            “I doubt you are prepared to undertake this journey.” Tinúviel said. She paused to gather her thoughts. “I am going to Mordor.” Holdwyn stared, her eyes wide. “Have you heard the story of Isildur’s Bane? I do not know how well known it is in this part of the world.”

            “Only rumors.” Holdwyn whispered. “I thought it was a legend.”

            “It is not.” Tinúviel said. “It has been found. I am taking it to Mordor to destroy it in the fires of Oroduin. I am looking through the books to find anything Isildur might have written about it, so that I can be certain it is the right one.” Holdwyn seemed to be turning this over in her mind.

            “I’ll come with you.” she said. “That’s not a good place for someone to go alone. I do have combat training.” Tinúviel seemed to remember that Holdwyn’s combat training was from her older brother and had probably been mostly sword sparring, but she said nothing. It was true, she would need at least one companion in Mordor. She had been so focused on keeping the mission secret that she had forgotten just how dangerous the mission was. Holdwyn had not been her first choice for a companion, but there was no one else. She would not think of taking Faramir, as he was the Steward’s son, and if she brought Dirhael she had an inkling that Faramir would probably come too.

            “All right.” she said. “I am sure you do not have the supplies for Mordor. Before we leave, we will restock. And I think I will start giving you more training. I do not know what your brother taught you, but I doubt it was enough for Mordor.” Holdwyn nodded.

“When are we leaving?” she asked.

            “When we find the information I am looking for, we will start making a plan for getting into Mordor itself.” Tinúviel said. “I do not know when this will be finished.” Holdwyn nodded.

            “Shall we get started?” she asked.

            “Yes,” Tinúviel said. “Well, as soon as we find Dirhael.” She went across the hall and grabbed the rolls that she had woken up to find on the table but had neglected to eat. Tucking one into her pocket, she left her room eating the other. She and Holdwyn walked down the winding stairs of the tower to the ground floor, where the guards lived. Men hurried back and forth on their way to their stations, shouting orders to each other. They often paused to stare at Tinúviel. Dirhael had left his barracks early that morning, which, according to the sleepy man who they spoke to, was his custom.

            “The man’s crazy.” they were told. “Wakes up with the sun but still goes to bed with the rest of us. He doesn’t even have an early posting. He’s mad!”

            “Do you know where he went?” Tinúviel asked. The man waved his hand vaguely.

            “Probably went up to the garden.” he said. “He loves plants or something. Mad!” They left him shaking his head over Dirhael. Tinúviel assumed that the garden he meant was the small collection of flowers and herbs that occupied a large balcony in the middle of the tower. She had seen it while she was walking through the tower the other day. When they walked in, it became clear that this was a neglected garden. Flowers grew rampant in other beds, and tangles of plants had grown into huge bushes. There were a few gnarled fruit trees that somehow were still producing apples, and what was apparently a lavender plant had taken over an entire section, choking out all of the other plants. There was no one there.

            “So much for loving plants.” Holdwyn muttered.

            “I wonder who used to take care of this garden.” Tinúviel wondered aloud. “This is not a city that prides itself on its plants.”

            “It could have been the Steward’s wife.” Holdwyn guessed. “When my father gets drunk he sometimes rambles about her. I think he was in love with her or something. They grew up together, I think.”

            “What happened to her?” Tinúviel asked. She had not seen any women other than the maids anywhere in the tower.

            “Died, I think.” Holdwyn said. “My father thinks that Denethor killed her, but I think he’s just jealous.” Her tone was so casual that Tinúviel thought she must be joking.

            “He…surely he did not actually kill his wife…” she said, staring at Holdwyn.

            “No, I don’t think so.” Holdwyn said thoughtfully. “But you never know.” Tinúviel frowned at her.

            “We can go to the library, I think.” she said. “Dirhael will know where to find us.” They left the overgrown garden and walked up the stairs to the library. The table was just as Tinúviel, Faramir, and Dirhael had left it, with a jumble of books in the center. They sat down and began to go through the books. They were not too far into their reading when Dirhael appeared. He flopped down into one of the chairs and pulled a book towards him.

            “Faramir has official duties right now, but he will be coming later.” he said. “He will likely not be able to come all the time, or his father will get suspicious.”

            “That is fine.” Tinúviel. “Even with him, it is going to take another week at least to finish all of these books.” Dirhael glanced up at the bookcases.

            “I hope what we’re looking for is on the first one.” he said. “Then we can be done faster.”

            Unfortunately, Dirhael’s hope was wrong. It took them another three weeks to read through all of the books. They finally finished late at night. It must have been quite the scene, all four of them hunched over their books and squinting in the light of a couple of candles. Holdwyn kept falling asleep on her book. Dirhael stood up periodically to walk around the table very fast, presumably to stay focused. Tinúviel was so focused on reading every word of the books that she barely noticed these things. When she finished the last book in her pile, she set it down gently on the stack of finished books, then stood up to look for more books, hoping that they had missed something.

            “I do not believe any of these have what you need, Tinúviel.” Faramir said, closing his book with a final thump. “Can you just trust your instincts and take it to Mordor?”

            “I have to be certain.” Tinúviel said, squatting to peer at the bottom shelf of the bookcase. “Gandalf wanted us to do this. He must have had a reason. He must have.”

            “I never want to read another word in my life.” Dirhael exclaimed, tossing the scroll he had been reading to the side. “Why are there so many ancient writings in this godsforsaken library?”

            “Apparently there are not enough ancient writings.” Faramir said. Tinúviel pulled out the books on the shelves and peered at them, desperate. There had to be another book on the shelf.

            “What was he looking for?” she muttered, frantically flipping through the pages of a book she had already read.

            “Maybe it’s somewhere else in the library.” Dirhael suggested.

            “This is where we keep all of the writings from the times of the early kings.” Faramir said. “If the librarians are as good as I know them to be, it will not be anywhere else.” Dirhael sighed and leaned his head over onto Faramir’s shoulder. Tinúviel scanned all of the shelves carefully. It was impossible that nothing had contained what she needed. It just couldn’t be! She turned to the last shelf, the one they had just finished, and stared at the shelf. Suddenly, she spotted something. An old and faded piece of paper was shoved between two books. They must have disregarded it as trash. She pulled it carefully from where it was and studied it. It was covered in the archaic script all of the books were written in, and in the center of the page was a drawing of an elvish script. Tinúviel read it through. 

             “This is it.” she announced after reading it twice over. The others were all staring at her with anticipation. “This is what we have been looking for.”

            “What does it say?” Holdwyn asked.

            “There was writing on the ring after he took it off of Sauron’s hand.” Tinúviel said. “Isildur thought that if it were heated up, it would show the writing again.”

            “Let’s try it.” Dirhael said. He leapt to his feet. “There is a fireplace in the main library.” He hurried off into the darkness of the library. Tinúviel grabbed a candle and followed him, the parchment clutched in her other hand. She found Dirhael building up wood in the dark. Faramir and Holdwyn appeared soon after. Dirhael took the candle and lit the kindling on fire. Soon, they had a roaring fire blazing. It lit the others faces in a strange and frightening way.

            “Put it in.” Faramir said. Tinúviel took the ring out and stared at it. It gleamed in the firelight. She did not want to throw it in, but she did not know why she did not want to. It was logical. If she threw the ring into the fire, they would know for certain that they had the right ring. But that might hurt the ring. But the flames were not hot enough to damage it.

            “Damnit!” she said. “I cannot make myself.”

            “It won’t be harmed, I’m sure.” Dirhael said. He had moved to stand next Faramir. Tinúviel curled her hand around the ring and stared at the fire. Finally, with a great effort of will, she forced her hand to throw into the fire. Her hand pulled back at the last second, but it was not enough to stop the ring’s trajectory. It fell into the heart of the flames. Tinúviel frantically grabbed for the tongs and pulled it out of the fire. It was red-hot with heat, and sure enough elven letters were strung across the surface.

“I do not know what it says.” she said, frowning. “Isildur copied it out on the paper, and I thought he had just copied it wrong. It’s not any kind of Elvish.” She began to read it out loud. “Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash–” The air grew cold and tight, and the words filled the darkness and made it tighter and thicker. Dirhael and Faramir clutched each other. Holdwyn put her hands over her ears. Tinúviel shuddered and shoved the ring deep into her pocket.

            “What was that?” Dirhael whispered hoarsely.

            “What was that?” Holdwyn asked shakily, overlapping with Dirhael. Tinúviel stared into the fire. She shuddered.

            “It must have been the Black Speech.” Faramir said. “I have never heard it before, and I do not think I want to again.” He pressed closer to Dirhael and shuddered.

            “At least we know it is the right one.” Tinúviel said quietly. The others were silent. They stood staring at the fire for a long time.

            The next morning, Tinúviel and Holdwyn went to see Denethor. Tinúviel still did not have a plan for what they were going to do, but the beginnings of one was forming in her mind. Faramir was leaving in a few days for Ithilien, which was on the borders of Mordor. He was stationed there much of the time, but there had been a few visiting dignitaries in the city and he had needed to be around. Tinúviel had decided that she and Holdwyn would go with him and figure out a plan while they were there. Denethor, however was not in the throne room when they arrived. A servant told them he thought that the Steward was probably outside of the barracks.

            “What is he doing there, I wonder?” Tinúviel said as they hurried down the stairs.

            “Part of the army is leaving for Osgiliath today.” Holdwyn said. Tinúviel stared at her.

            “How do you know that?” she asked. Holdwyn shrugged. “I thought they were leaving earlier, and I assumed Boromir and Denethor had changed their minds.” Tinúviel added.  
            “I overheard the servants talking about it.” Holdwyn said. Tinúviel wondered how on earth Holdwyn, someone with limited hearing capabilities, had overheard something, but she did not ask. When they came out into the sunlight, they immediately saw the soldiers milling about the courtyard. Denethor was talking to an armored Boromir by the steps of the tower. Tinúviel went to stand to the side to wait for them to finish.

            “I see you are out of the library at last.” Boromir said upon noticing her. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

            “I did indeed.” Tinúviel said. She turned to Denethor. “My lord, I have come to tell you that my companion and I will be leaving you. We will be going to Ithilien with Lord Faramir, if that seems good to you.”

            “That is acceptable.” Denethor said. “He is leaving tomorrow, I believe. I wanted him to leave yesterday, but he was insistent.” His eyes flared. Tinúviel sensed that she was treading into familial conflict again.

            “Thank you.” she said, bowing. “Do you know where he is?”

            “He is somewhere over there.” Boromir said, pointing towards the side of the barracks. “I saw him go over there a few minutes ago.” Tinúviel nodded and walked towards where he had pointed. Holdwyn grabbed the edge of her tunic so that she would not get lost in the crush of soldiers. They wove through the men and horses, looking for Faramir. They found him and Dirhael in the alley between the two barracks buildings. They were holding hands and standing very close together, talking quietly. Dirhael was wearing armor. Tinúviel stopped, and Holdwyn walked into her. Dirhael looked up.

            “Hello, you two.” he said. Faramir turned around to see who he was talking to and smiled wanly. They both seemed worried about something.

            “I heard they were sending a special force, not the regular men-at-arms.” Holdwyn said. Tinúviel wondered where Holdwyn had gone to get all of the information she seemed to have about the movements of the army of Minas Tirith.

            “They needed more men and they picked me.” Dirhael said bitterly. “Ostensibly it’s because I know how to ride and most of the other men do not, but I know plenty of other men who can ride and none of them got picked. Just me and a couple of the Tower Guard.”

            “I have had _words_ with my father.” Faramir said, his eyes flashing with anger. “He would not admit to being biased in his selections, but I _know_.”

            “It will be fine.” Dirhael said, as if to calm himself down as well as Faramir. “Boromir is a good captain. He will not lead us into danger heedlessly.”

            “That is exactly what this is!” Faramir exclaimed. “There is no way this force can take Osgiliath back from the Enemy. I have sent scouts there and there are too many soldiers there for us to take on with just this! Boromir will not listen to me, though. He is set on glory for Gondor and for himself.”

            “Mount up!” Boromir’s voice called from somewhere nearby. He appeared from the depths of the crowd and went to his brother. They clasped arms. Boromir began to speak softly and quickly. Dirhael went over to Tinúviel and Holdwyn.

            “Are you leaving?” he asked.

            “We are going to Ithilien with Faramir, if he consents, which I am sure he will.” Tinúviel said. “I do not think we will see each other again for a long time, if at all.”

            “Don’t say that.” Dirhael said. “It’s bad luck to be negative.” He smiled, but it did not take away the anxiety in his face. “I am sure we will cross paths again in this crazy war.”

            “Let’s go!” Boromir said cheerily, thumping Dirhael on the back genially. “Good luck, you two.” he said to the women, clasping Tinúviel’s arm and clapping Holdwyn on the shoulder. “Go save the world.”

            “I hope we will, my lord.” Tinúviel said. She guessed that Boromir had heard of the nature of their quest from Faramir. Dirhael and Faramir kissed very briefly, then Dirhael swung himself onto his horse and, waving, trotted into the mass of soldiers. They flowed through the gates and out into the city. Faramir stayed frozen, watching the procession as it rode down into the city.

            “I need to pack.” he said finally, once the last horse had left the gate. “You two need not pack supplies; we have plenty in Ithilien.” He turned and walked quickly into the tower.


	11. The Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company takes on the mountains

If someone ever wrote an epic poem of their journey south, Gilraen thought that the first few stanzas would be the worst. The first weeks were long and dull. They hiked through woods and hills, seeing nothing but small animals. Gilraen knew she would miss the lack of action when they started to face real danger, but in the moment, it was an endless slog through woods that all looked the same. She did appreciate the chance to get to know her companions before they were in the thick of the battle. Gilraen had met quite a few Mirkwood elves, but Legolas was Mirkwood royalty, a brand she had not yet encountered. He spoke a rustic dialect of Elvish that she was not as familiar with, something she discovered on the first day when she tried to practice with him and found that she had no idea what he was saying. He clearly thought very highly of himself and spent the first week not talking to anyone but Aragorn and Arwen. That ended when he fell into a bog and they had to pull him out of the mud. From then on, he was much more open to talking to the hobbits and Gilraen.

Making Gimli and Legolas interact in any way that wasn’t incredibly tense was much harder. Gimli was a hard worker and loved to tell raunchy stories around the campfire that made Gilraen and the younger hobbits laugh like crazy, but he carried a deep suspicious of Legolas that came from his father’s experience in the Mirkwood court. Aragorn tried his best to make them become friends, but in the end, he decided to let it happen naturally. Three weeks of trudging through forests later, they were more cordial than suspicious, but they still were far from being friends.

The hobbits were all as fun to be around as they had been on the journey to Rivendell. Merry and Pippin were mischievous and kept the spirits of the party up, although Pippin kept getting himself into predicaments that were mainly of his own making. Sam was a fantastic cook and had a treasure trove of songs and poems tucked inside his brain. Frodo knew a lot of old stories as well. One night, he told them the story of his uncle Bilbo’s adventure with Thorin Oakensheild and his party of dwarves. Gilraen was enthralled. It was much more exciting than the rumors she had heard in the Dúnedain camp.

“That is much more different from the story my father told me.” Gimli said when Frodo had finished. “Well, the part about how he escaped from Gollum is.”

“Is it?” Frodo said, looking surprised. “He told me all about that part. He left out that he’d lost the ring, though, but I think he must have thought that wasn’t important.”

“Objects of power like the ring can make people do strange things.” Arwen said. “I am not surprised he did not tell anyone but Frodo and Gandalf.”

The mountains had been lurking on the edges of the horizon for most of the journey, but at the beginning of the last week they sprang up, tall and looming over the forest. Gimli gasped in joy when they first saw them.

“There they are!” he said in awe. “Zirakzigil, and Fanuidhol, and cruel Carahdras! I have heard their names in many a song, but I never thought I would see them in person.”

“There’s snow on the tops, but it’s still summer!” Pippin exclaimed. “They must be really tall.”

“We’re going to climb up those?” Sam said. “Gosh.”

“It is warm enough that we should not be affected by the snow.” Aragorn said, gazing up at the mountains. “We will be climbing up the shoulder of Carahdras, through the Redhorn pass. It is a hard climb, and is fraught with danger, but it is our best option.”

“What about Khazad-dûm?” Gimli asked.

“No.” Aragorn said quickly. “That is a dark road, and I will not walk it willingly.” Gimli nodded, but he seemed disappointed. Gilraen wondered why Gimli wanted to go to Khazad-dûm. From the stories she had heard, the ancient home of the dwarves was full of evil creatures, goblins and orcs and worse. One of her friends pulled out stories of Khazad-dûm around the campfire late at night to scare the younger Dúnedain, and Gilraen could remember having nightmares for weeks after someone had told her a story about it when she was very small. It must have a different reputation among the dwarves.

“I am glad we are not going down there.” Legolas said. “Underground is not the place for an elf.”

“If we must, we will go there.” Arwen said. “It will be a last resort, though. Carahdras can be cruel, but since it is the summer he will not have all the weapons he has in other times of the year.”

The mountains grew larger and larger as they approached, and the ground gradually began to slope up. They reached the start of the pass in five days. It was a steep slope, but not too hard to climb for the less experienced among them. Gilraen had walked up a few mountains in her time, but none as steep or infamous as this one. They made good time and camped in a small indent in the side of the mountain far above the wilds they had just climbed out of. Gilraen had first watch, and she settled herself down to watch the last threads of sunlight falling below the horizon. Aragorn came over to sit next to her.

“If we have to go into Khazad-dûm–” she began, but Aragorn raised a hand to stop her.

“I will not consider it until all hope of us crossing the pass is lost.” he said. “It is dangerous, more so than crossing the mountain in the dead of winter even. It is a last resort, and nothing more.” Gilraen nodded.

“I wonder what Tinúviel and Gandalf are doing.” she said. “They must be heading to you-know-where by now.”

“Unless they have not found the book that Gandalf was looking for.” Aragorn said. “But I am sure that he found it soon.”

“The war might not even happen, if they get there in time.” Gilraen said hopefully. “We might not be needed in Minas Tirith.”

“That would be nice.” Aragorn agreed. “But I do not believe it will happen like that. It never does.”

“I always thought they made up the sad endings to the stories so that they would be interesting and leave more for the writers to say later.” Gilraen said. “I hope our story isn’t like that.”

“Maybe.” Aragorn said.

“When are you going to reveal your true heritage?” Gilraen asked. “You said that you would when the time is right, but how will you know when that is?”

“I do not know.” Aragorn said. “Perhaps when the war is over will be the right time. Like I said, I do not think Lord Denethor will take kindly to me if I reveal my royal blood before a battle. He might perceive it to be an attempt to take his power, which of course I do not want to do.” He sighed. “It will happen eventually. The time is drawing near.”

“Soon we will have peace and freedom everywhere.” Gilraen said. “I hope.”

“I hope so, too.” Aragorn said. He stood up and stretched. “Try not to fall asleep on watch.” he said. “I am going to sleep. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“I never fall asleep on watch!” Gilraen called after him. She shook her head and turned back to look at the sky.

The next day took them even closer to the peak. It began to grow colder, and they were forced to pull out cloaks and winter gear. The air smelled faintly of snow. In the afternoon it began to grow windy, and the sky grew gray.

“It is not cold enough for snow!” Gimli shouted into the air.

“Who are you talking to?” Merry asked. “I don’t think the weather can hear.”

“Carahdras is an angry old man, and he might try to bring down a winter storm on us.” Gimli said. “He does not care that it is summer; he will try anyway.”

“Can the mountain really hear us?” Gilraen whispered to Arwen. She was the eldest of them, so Gilraen assumed that she knew about the mountain.

“The dwarves believe so.” Arwen said. “I do not know whether to believe them. It does have an evil personality, though. You can feel it.” She shuddered. Gilraen knew that Arwen’s mother had been kidnapped by orcs while in these mountains and wondered if her judgement might be clouded a bit by that. It was not a serious thought. While Gilraen was over her childhood crush on Arwen, she still believed firmly that Arwen knew everything and was rarely wrong.

As they climbed further up the mountain, it began to rain. It was not hard, but it was thick and fast.  

“I think Gimli is right.” Pippin moaned, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. “The mountain has it in for us.”

“Be grateful it is not colder.” Aragorn said darkly.

“I am glad I do not need my bow.” Legolas declared. “This is not good for the string at all.”

“That is why I use a good, hardy ax.” Gimli declared. Legolas glared. Arwen stepped back to stand in between them.

“Everyone back home would like this.” Sam commented. “Watering the plants, and puddles for the little ones to jump in.”

“It would make a good day to sit by the fire and read.” Frodo said wistfully. “I miss my fireplace.”

“Don’t start that!” Pippin exclaimed. “I don’t want to think about nice things just now. Get me away from mountains and rain! My feet are cold.”

“One time, I had to go from Bree all the way to the forests past Rivendell in a thunderstorm the whole way.” Gilraen said. “It was worse than this by far.”

“Ugh!” Pippin said. “Imagine that swamp in a thunderstorm.”

“Oh, I went around the swamp.” Gilraen said. “The Trollshaws in the dark in pounding rain, though; worse than the swamp by far.” They continued to trudge up the slope. They were passing piles of rocks and shrubs. Tumbled piles of what must have been buildings once lined the path.

            “There are no birds.” Gilraen said, frowning. “This feels like a place where birds would be, but I can’t hear any.” Aragorn nodded, scanning the rocks anxiously.

“Elves lived here once.” Legolas said thoughtfully. “I can feel it in the air. Maybe that is why it feels like that.”

“Yes, I can feel it too.” Arwen said. “But it is strange. The plants do not speak of them, nor the earth. Only the stones.”

“ _High they built us, deep they delved us, but they are gone_.” Legolas chanted softly. “They passed to the Havens long ago.”

“Celebrimbor, the last of the House of Fëanor, ruled here once.” Arwen said. “Before him, my mother’s parents, Galadriel and Celeborn of Lothlorien did. But that was many years ago. They left when the evil under the mountain was awakened.”

“The evil under the mountain?” Merry asked. He looked scared.

“It will not harm us here.” Arwen said. “It is deeply buried. That is why Aragorn does not want to venture into Khazad-Dûm.” The hobbits and Gimli shuddered. They walked on. That night they camped in the shelter of a large rock. When Gilraen was on watch, she heard screeching birds flying through the darkness. She shivered in the rain and pulled her cloak tighter, hoping that whatever creatures were flying through the night, they did not have night vision.

They were nearing the summit. It was growing colder, and the rain grew thicker and faster. It was impossible to see what was in front of them. They picked their way through the rocks, trying not to slip. Pippin had stopped complaining about the rain. Gilraen focused all her energy on not slipping and not running into Gimli. Everyone was just a black lump in the rain. As they went on, the rain started to turn to ice, and walking became harder. The hobbits kept slipping. Gilraen was grateful for her thick boots. They had a frightening experience near the top of the pass, where the path became narrow. Gimli, who had been stumping along well in his own practical boots, slipped on an icy patch and almost fell off of the edge. He was saved by Legolas of all people, who dove for his arms before he could fall. With a great effort, the elf tugged Gimli up onto the path.

“I never thought I would be saved by an elf, especially one of Thanduril’s children.” Gimli wheezed after he had been pulled onto the path.

“I never thought I would save a dwarf.” Legolas gasped. They were both out of breath, and the company had to take time to wait for them to recover.

At long last, they halted. There was nowhere to go that protected them from the rain. They huddled in a circle, shivering. Bill the pony looked absolutely miserable. He had not been built for this kind of work. Gilraen did not know how he had managed to make it this far. The birds from the night before were still overhead.

“What are those?” Pippin asked, his teeth chattering.

“Spies.” Aragorn said. “They cannot see us through this. It is Carahdras’ only gift to us. We are almost to the Stair.”

“Stair!?” Sam, Merry, and Pippin exclaimed as one.

“We can’t go down a stair in this!” Sam added. “We’ll break our heads open!”

“Carahdras will give up once we are past his peak.” Gimli said. They ate cold dried meat in silence and slept fitfully. It was impossible to tell what morning in the rain was, but once everyone had gotten some form of sleep, they set off again. The rain had become a horrible combination of rain and snow. It made the rocks treacherous, and they moved at a snail’s pace. They inched across the snow. Pippin fell and skinned one of his knees, which held them up for a moment. Bill the pony nearly slipped and lost all of their luggage to the slope. They practically crawled over the summit as it was too slick to safely walk. Bill had the sense to go cautiously. They slipped down to a place where the rock fell away and grass began sprouting again. The precipitation turned back to icy rain, and then to a soft gentle water. They kept going for a few more hours, than collapsed in an exhausted circle in a sheltered and blessedly dry alcove.

“That was much easier than I expected.” Aragorn said when he had caught his breath. “It has been a warm summer, but I was expecting a lot more than that.”

“Be quiet!” Gimli warned. “He might hear you.”

“We are out of danger now.” Arwen said. “Once we made it past the summit, we won. That is what my brothers tell me, anyway.”

The Dimril Stair, a steep set of steps carved into the other side of Carahdras, were a blessing after the treacherous icy stone of the top of the pass. Sam slowed the party down a bit with his fear of falling, but even so they made good time. On their fourth day in the mountains, they came at last to the other side. They walked out onto a lawn of grass.

“I would like to look into Kheled-zâram before we move on.” Gimli announced. Aragorn nodded his consent. They walked on until they reached a path. Gimli turned to go down it but paused. “Legolas,” he said. “Come with me.” Legolas looked surprised and followed him. They were only a few minutes, but they came out arm in arm.

“What did you see?” Gilraen asked. Legolas just smiled mysteriously. They walked on until it grew dark, then made camp. They all slept deeply, glad to be free of the rain and danger of the mountains.


	12. Lothlorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives in Lothlorien, and Gilraen has an interesting interaction with Galadriel.

They walked for a while the next day, seeing nothing but the sides of the mountains falling down into a valley. As they walked on, they heard the quiet sound of water falling. They had arrived on the edges of a wood. There was a clear stream running down from a pile of rocks. The trees were like nothing Gilraen had ever seen. Their leaves were a vibrant gold, and their barks were of a beautiful silver. Everything glowed with a fiery light in the setting sun. They stopped to drink and take in the beautiful scenery.

“This is the river Nimrodel.” Arwen said, gazing up at the waterfall. “They say if you listen you can hear the voice of Nimrodel, who was an elven maiden of this land long ago.” She stood in silence for a long time, then began to chant:

“An Elven-maid there was of old,

A shining star by day:

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,

Her shoes of silver-grey.

 

A star was bound upon her brows,

A light was on her hair

As sun upon the golden boughs

In Lórien the fair.

 

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,

And fair she was and free;

And in the wind she went as light

As leaf of linden-tree.

 

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,

By water clear and cool,

Her voice as falling silver fell

Into the shining pool.

 

Where now she wanders none can tell,

In sunlight or in shade;

For lost of yore was Nimrodel

And in the mountains strayed.

 

The elven-ship in haven grey

Beneath the mountain-lee

Awaited her for many a day

Beside the roaring sea.

 

A wind by night in Northern lands

Arose, and loud it cried,

And drove the ship from elven-strands

Across the streaming tide.

 

When dawn came dim the land was lost,

The mountains sinking grey

Beyond the heaving waves that tossed

Their plumes of blinding spray.

 

Amroth beheld the fading shore

Now low beyond the swell,

And cursed the faithless ship that bore

Him far from Nimrodel.

 

Of old he was an Elven-king,

A lord of tree and glen,

When golden were the boughs in spring

In fair Lothlórien.

 

From helm to sea they saw him leap,

As arrow from the string,

And dive into the water deep,

As mew upon the wing.

 

The wind was in his flowing hair,

The foam about him shone;

Afar they saw him strong and fair

Go riding like a swan.

 

But from the West has come no word,

And on the Hither Shore

No tidings Elven-folk have heard

Of Amroth evermore.”

She stopped there and sighed. “That is all I care to sing to you. There is much more, but it speaks of evil and of how the dwarves awakened the evil under the mountain. It is not certain whether they really did,” she said quickly, as Gimli had opened his mouth to retort. “But that is what the song says. I wish you all knew my language, for it is much more beautiful. Come, let us now cross the river and enter into the land of my mother.” She stepped into the water. They all followed her. The weariness of the journey seemed to wash away as the water flowed over their boots and feet.

They walked on in the twilight of the forest in silence. The leaves were almost more beautiful in the faint light from the setting sun. They had not been walking long when Arwen put up a hand. 

“Shh!” she hissed. She walked forward a few steps, then called out in Sindarin, “Hello. I am Arwen, daughter of Celebrían.” There was an exclamation in the trees, and someone replied to her. They had a very fast, involved conversation that Gilraen was not able to follow, as she was not familiar with the dialect. When it came to an end, three elves climbed down from their perches in the trees. They were tall and had dark brown skin with thick, long, straight black hair. One of them stepped forward.

“Greetings.” he said in Westron, nodding to the party. “I am Haldir, the marchwarden of Lórien. These are my brothers; they do not speak your tongue. Lady Arwen has told us of your journey. We will allow you to stay in our  _ talans _ tonight and decide what to do with your party tomorrow.”

“What is a  _ talan _ ?” Frodo wondered.

“I believe your word is  _ flet _ .” Haldir said.

“They are platforms in the trees.” Arwen explained. “They are quite safe, and very comfortable.”

“Maybe for some people.” Sam groused. “Hobbits were not meant to sleep in trees.”

“Arwen and Aragorn will wish to sleep in their own  _ talan _ , I am sure.” Haldir said with a slight smile. “The rest of you may divide yourselves up evenly.”

“We will share a  _ talan _ .” Legolas said, putting a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Haldir raised his eyebrows. “As friends.” Legolas clarified, looking indignant that Haldir would even think to assume something like that.

“I think I will share with Legolas and Gimli.” Gilraen said. “I am sure they will talk all night, but the hobbits are louder and less likely to sleep.” Haldir showed them to the  _ talans _ and they lugged their packs up into the trees. The  _ talan _ was huge. It had a screen up on the west side, where the wind was blowing, and all the other sides were open. They were surrounded by the golden leaves of the trees on all sides. Gilraen rolled herself up in her blanket and settled down to sleep. As she had predicted, Legolas and Gimli set their bedrolls next to each other and began to talk quietly. Every so often, one of them would laugh. Gilraen smiled, turned towards the screen, and fell asleep.

She woke up with the sunlight. The leaves were shimmering and beautiful. She packed up her blanket and climbed down the ladder. One of Haldir’s brothers was standing by the side of a tree. He nodded at her. The hobbits were sitting around the base of their tree eating fruit and bread.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, flopping down onto the grass and taking a couple of strawberries.

“Surprisingly well, for a platform in a tree fifty feet above the ground.” Pippin said.

“Something was climbing up our tree last night.” Frodo said. “We do not know what it was, but the elves were not able to catch it.”

“Did you see what it was?” Gilraen asked Haldir’s brother in Sindarin. “The thing in the tree.”

“Not an orc.” he replied in the same language. “Something skinny and gray, with big eyes and feet. It climbed like a cat.” Gilraen ate a slice of bread thoughtfully.

“I have never heard of anything like that.” she said in Westron. “Freaky.”

“What did he say?” Merry asked.

“The thing that was climbing your tree was skinny and gray, and it had big eyes and feet.” Gilraen said. “It wasn’t any sort of orc, though.” They ate in silence. Gimli clambered down from the tree very slowly and joined them. He was followed shortly by Legolas. They joined them around the circle of food and took their own fruit.

“Where’s Strider?” Pippin wondered. “And Arwen.”

“Do you know where Aragorn is?” Gilraen asked Haldir’s brother. He smiled, pointed up at the tree, and winked. “They will be awhile.” she said to the others.

“What are they doing?” Pippin wondered.

“You see, Pippin, when a man and a woman love each other very much–” Merry began. Pippin whacked him. Haldir climbed down from another  _ talan _ .

“Good morning.” he said. “Once Arwen and Aragorn are awake, we will set out.” As if his words had summoned them, Aragorn and Arwen emerged from their  _ talan _ , carrying their packs and looking refreshed.

“Had a nice night?” Gilraen asked, grinning at Aragorn. He thumped her on the back of the head and sat down to eat.

They walked deeper into Lothlórien. It seemed that as they drew closer to the home of the elves the trees grew brighter. Yellow flowers began to spring up in the grass.

“Those are elanor.” Arwen told the party. “They grow only in Lórien.” Sam paused to inspect the flower. After a long walk–how long, Gilraen could not tell–they reached another river. This one flowed very fast and burbled merrily along its way.

“It is too deep to cross, and the current is too fast to be safe.” Haldir told them. “We must use another manner, as it is not safe to keep bridges in this part of the world.” He pulled a length of rope from his own pack and whistled. Another elf appeared on the other shore, and Haldir threw the rope across to them. The other elf tied it off to a tree, and Haldir did the same.

“We have to  _ walk _ across that?” Sam exclaimed. “What will we do about Bill?” They turned to look at the pony. He looked back at them, seeming dejected.

“We will have to leave him.” Aragorn said gently. Sam was very upset, but he relented. It would be impossible to bring the pony across the river. They divided the contents of his saddlebags up among their packs. Haldir explained the situation to one of his brothers, and the brother took Bill by the reins and led him back into the forest.

“He will be well taken care of.” Haldir promised the distraught Sam. “He will have a good life, though we do not usually keep animals.”

“Since there are some among our party who are not used to walking such a path, I think it best if you tie up hand rails for all sizes.” Arwen suggested. Haldir nodded and, signaling to the other elf, fashioned two other ropes at man-height and hobbit height. They went across one by one. Gilraen clung to the rope but did not look down. Pippin scampered across like he had been walking over rushing streams on rope bridges all his life. Sam shuffled across, glancing back to where Bill had gone. When they had crossed the stream, more elves appeared from the woods. Haldir pulled a cloth out from his pocket.

“Before we go any further, I must ask that the dwarf go blindfolded.” he said apologetically. Gimli looked furious.

“I am on the side of good in this war!” he roared. “I am not malicious towards the elves!! I will not walk blindfolded!!” He clutched his ax and planted his feet, glaring at the elves.

“I can vouch for him in front of my grandmother.” Arwen said. “It is not right that he should walk blinded under the  _ mallorn _ in the summer.” Haldir shuffled his feet.

“It is your grandmother’s law.” he said in Sindarin. “I do not know if she will like me letting you break it.”

“She will accept it if I vouch for the dwarf.” Arwen said in the same language. “She trusts me. Aragorn can vouch for him, too. We have two elves and two Dúnedain who will all vouch for the dwarf.” Haldir frowned, considering.

“I will go blindfolded, but only if Legolas also shares my blindness.” Gimli offered. Legolas bristled.

“I am an elf and a kinsman here!” he exclaimed.

“I think…I will allow him to walk free.” Haldir said slowly in Westron.

“I will take all of the blame if she is not happy about this.” Arwen promised. “In these times of war, we should not be divided among ourselves.” 

Gilraen spent most of their walk through the forest staring up at the trees, or down at the flowers. The sun made the leaves glow, so it looked as if they were in a ball of fire. The others were just as entranced. Aragorn and Arwen were walking a little ahead of everyone else, holding hands. Something about the light through the trees made them look as if they were decades younger. Sam had not closed his mouth since they passed over the river. Legolas and Gimli were walking at the back. Legolas kept pointing things out to Gimli, and Gimli actually seemed interested. Gilraen had never thought she would ever see a dwarf fascinated by plants. 

It seemed to take them almost no time at all to reach the part of the forest where the Galadhrim lived. As they approached, they started to see flets high up in the trees and hear snatches of elves talking and laughing. A few younger elves poked their heads around trees to stare at their group, disappearing into the woods when they saw Gilraen looking at them. They reached the center of the city in the trees, where a huge mallorn stood. Stairs wound around its trunk and led up into the branches. Haldir led them up these steps. Gilraen gripped the railing tightly, trying not to look down. The stairs were very thin, and she could see the ground below her if she made the mistake of looking through them. Finally, they reached the very solid  _ talan _ at the top of the horribly long staircase. It was open to the trees, but they could not see between the planks. Towards the back of the  _ talan _ were two thrones, and on them were two of the most beautiful people Gilraen had ever seen. They were both equally tall, and had long, straight black hair and deep brown skin that accented their white robes. They both wore silver circlets in their hair. When the party entered the  _ talan _ they both stood and smiled. Gilraen inferred that these were Celeborn and Galadriel, the rulers of this land

“Welcome to Lothlórien.” Galadriel said, inclining her head. “I expected you later, but I take it the weather on the mountain was favorable.”

“It was indeed, my lady.” Aragorn said, bowing slightly.

“You have brought a dwarf with you.” Celeborn said, eyeing Gimli. “Elrond did not mention that.”

“He is a trustworthy ally.” Arwen said, stepping forward. “I will vouch for him.”

“Elrond chose him to accompany us.” Aragorn added. Celeborn raised one perfect eyebrow. Galadriel walked towards the company and regarded Gimli.

“I see.” she said finally. “It has been many years since we allowed a dwarf within our borders, but in times of war we are often forced to change our rules to fit the situation. He will be allowed to go freely in these lands, but only if Arwen, Aragorn, or Legolas accompanies him.”

“Yes, my lady.” Gimli said, bowing so low that his beard touched his boots. Galadriel nodded.

“Very well.” she said. “You are going on to Minas Tirith, correct?” Gilraen had the sense that the lady knew exactly what they were doing and was just asking to make conversation. In fact, she seemed to know every detail of their journey. Even if Gilraen had not known that Galadriel was Arwen’s grandmother, she would have guessed it just from that.

“Yes.” Aragorn said. “We will bring news from the north and offer assistance to them in their war.”

“Good.” Galadriel said. “Have you had any word from Gandalf? I have searched for him, but I cannot see him anywhere. I have had strange visions of him.” She seemed very disturbed.

“No, my lady.” Aragorn said. “He and Tinúviel must be almost to Mordor by now.” Galadriel frowned.

“Interesting.” she said but did not elaborate. Gilraen glanced over at Aragorn and Arwen. Arwen’s face was inscrutable, but Aragorn seemed very worried. She fidgeted with one of her braids anxiously.   

“You must be tired from your journey.” Celeborn said. “Haldir, can you show them to guest  _ talans _ ?”

“Of course.” Haldir said, bowing.

“Arwen, I would like to speak with you once you are settled in.” Galadriel said. Arwen nodded. Haldir led them back down the steps and to a few empty  _ talans _ near the large tree. They were in the same groups they had been the past night. When Gilraen had set up her bedroll, she climbed down the tree and wandered around the woods. Legolas had dragged Gimli off to look at something or other, and the hobbits were doing their own thing.

As she walked past, the elves pointed and whispered. It was not often that anyone visited Lothlórien from the outside, much less humans. She meandered through the paths and around the forest, gazing up at the trees. She was very worried about Gandalf and Tinúviel. She had heard a lot of rumors about Galadriel, but the main thread of them was that she was incredibly powerful and might even rival Sauron. If she could not find Gandalf with her magic, something was very wrong. Gilraen was fairly certain that if they had been captured, it would be clear. They would not have made it to Lothlórien. Galadriel might not have tried to look for Tinúviel. Where were they? She was so caught up in her worries that she did not notice the hobbits until she walked into Pippin, who promptly fell over.

“Oh! Sorry!” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly. “Are you all right?” The hobbits were also walking about in the same direction as her and had not noticed her behind them.

“He’s fine. He’s just clumsy.” Merry said, pulling his cousin to his feet. “What are you up to?”

“Just walking.” Gilraen said. “What about you?”

“Sam wants to look at the plants, Frodo wants to look at the elves, and we had nothing better to do.” Pippin said. “You can come with us if you want.”

“Sure!” Gilraen said. It would distract her from her worries. They walked down the path some more.

“Where do the Rangers live?” Pippin asked. “Or do you live anywhere?”

“We have a few camps, but the main one, where I’m from, is in the Emyn Uial. It’s north of the Shire.” Gilraen said. “It’s where most of our main force lives. Generally, people are out in the wild most of the time, so most of the people who live there are children and the elderly, and those who take care of the children and the elderly.”

“Do a lot of children live there?” Merry wondered. “I would think that there aren’t many.”

“It depends.” Gilraen said. “Right now, there are about seven children. We consider children to be under the age of sixteen. After then, most of them can wield a sword fairly well and follow orders.”

“Wow.” Pippin said. “I haven’t even come of age yet and I’m much older than sixteen.” Gilraen smiled.

“We are a dying race, we Dúnedain.” she said. “We have to use all the resources we have. That’s not why we let women fight, though.” she added, thinking that the hobbits might interpret that to be part of what she was implying. “We have always let women fight, even in the old days when Elendil was king. It is a new practice to prohibit women from combat, one that I don’t really understand.”

“I don’t get that either.” Sam said. “My friend Rosie, she could wield a weapon as good or better than any man I know. ‘Course, she doesn’t, but if she did…”

“Rosie’s a little more than your friend, Sam.” Frodo said, grinning. Sam blushed crimson.

“What other strange things do they do in Gondor?” Pippin asked. “I asked Strider, but he was in one of his contemplative moods and he didn’t tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Gilraen said. “Aragorn told me that they’re suspicious of people from other places, but that makes sense these days.”

“I bet they don’t let people marry people of the same gender.” Merry said. Everyone stared at him incredulously.

“Where did you think that up?” Pippin asked. “That’s crazy! Everyone knows there’s nothing wrong with loving people of the same gender.”

“I’ll ask Aragorn, but I agree, that is far-fetched.” Gilraen said. “I think they still have some shreds of civilization in Gondor, even if they don’t let women fight.”

“My old gaffer told me that foreign parts are strange, so I think I’d believe anything.” Sam said wisely. They came around a corner and found themselves back by Galadriel’s tree. Aragorn and Arwen were descending the stairs.

“Aragorn!” Gilraen called, hurrying over to him. “Do you know if Gondor allows same-gender marriage?” Aragorn frowned, thinking.

“I do not believe so.” he said. “Why do you ask?” The hobbits exploded into exclamations of disbelief.

“We were discussing what strange things happen in the South.” Gilraen explained.

“That’s preposterous!” Merry exclaimed. “What else do they do, ban people from living?”

“This is going to be more of a learning experience than I thought it was.” Gilraen commented. “Gondor is stranger than I ever imagined it would be!”

That night, Gilraen had trouble sleeping, so she climbed down from her  _ talan  _ and went to take a walk. She was passing the tree where the throne  _ talan _ was when she saw Lady Galadriel standing in the shadow of a tree. The lady saw her, smiled, and beckoned. Gilraen walked slowly over to her, wondering what Galadriel could want from her.

“I would like to show you something.” the lady said. “Come with me.” Gilraen followed her through the trees to a clearing she had not seen in her traipsing. There was a pillar in the center of the clearing, and on it rested a bowl of water that shone in the moonlight. Galadriel walked over to the pillar and gestured to Gilraen.

“What is that?” Gilraen asked, coming forward but staying back a few paces from the pillar.

“This is the Mirror of Galadriel.” Galadriel said dramatically. “It shows me what has been, what is, and what may be. I think that you have been worrying about many things while you have been in my realm. I offer this to you, to give insight. But be warned: it does not always show what you want it to.” Gilraen frowned at her. It was tempting, but the old stories always warned about the dangers of seeing the future.

“What would you advise?” she asked.

“I do not know what to say.” Galadriel said. “It is different for everyone. I will say this. Do not try to act on what you see in the visions. That will almost always lead to tragedy, and never prevents the events. It is a heavy burden to bear, and I was hesitant about offering it to someone so young.”

“Why did you?” Gilraen asked.

“Something told me it was important for you to see.” Galadriel said vaguely. Gilraen looked at the Mirror. She knew that if she did not look, it would eat her up for the rest of her life, but if she looked, what would she see? She absently chewed on the end of one of her braids.

“I will look.” she said finally. “I think it will be worse if I do not.” Galadriel nodded and gestured to the bowl. Gilraen walked forward and looked down into the bowl.

At first all she saw was the stars reflected in the water, but there was a ripple and she found herself looking down on the Dúnedain camp. People were bustling about as usual, and everything seemed normal. The view turned south and passed over the Shire. It looked different. There was fires blazing, and Gilraen could not see any trees. The scene changed. It now showed Tinúviel running through a forest. It changed again. Gilraen was looking at herself. She was running towards a house in a city of white stone set against a red sky, her sword covered in blood. Another change. A man who Gilraen did not know was crouching on a stone floor, his curly hair falling into his soot-streaked face. He was holding someone else in his arms, but the other person’s face was turned into his chest so Gilraen could not see it. There was fire filling the room they were in, and Gilraen was about to scream at the images to run when the scene changed yet again. Aragorn was walking down a passage in a cave, his face lit by a strange light. Arwen was beside him. The mirror filled with darkness, and Gilraen stepped back. Her hands were shaking.

“What is happening to the Shire?” she asked.

“I do not know.” Galadriel said. “I did not see what you saw.”

“I think that was better than not seeing what was in the mirror.” Gilraen said slowly. “I could not understand any of the images, and they were not things I could even try to fix.”

“You have been blessed, then.” Galadriel said. “Often it shows things that we hold dear and close in danger, but that we cannot fix.” Gilraen nodded, staring at the bowl. She wondered where the forest Tinúviel had been in was. There were no forests like that in Mordor from what she had heard. At least she knew that Tinúviel was alive, hopefully. And where had Aragorn and Arwen been? She guessed that the image of her had been in Minas Tirith, but who had that man been? She chewed her braid again.

“Thank you, I think.” she said to Galadriel. “I have more things to think about, but some of them are not bad.” Galadriel nodded.

“I have often received news from Imladris that included stories of you and your…antics.” she said. “Aragorn speaks very highly of you, and Elrond sometimes includes Aragorn’s news in his missives. It is an honor to meet you.” Gilraen could feel her cheeks burning. She bowed, smiling embarrassedly.

“Thank you, my lady.” she said.

“Now, go back to bed.” Galadriel said. “I am not sure how long humans are supposed to sleep for, but I am sure it is not good for you to be awake at this hour.”

“Good night.” Gilraen said. She left the clearing and walked back to her  _ talan _ . It had been a strange few minutes, and she knew she would not be going to sleep anytime soon, with all that she had to think about.


End file.
